The Persistence of Memory
by The Skye Skye
Summary: Killing John Watson would be easy, but taking him from Sherlock would be so much more fun. Rated M for Character death, amnesia, and adult situations.
1. The Man Who Stole a Heart

_**Hello all! If you're here reading this because you like my "Misadventures of Vampire John" fic, well, this one is very different so don't expect anything crazy and goofy and fun! This is my first really serious fic in the Sherlock fandom, and, if you want me to update, you've gotta let me know! I thrive on positive feedback. So. Please enjoy:**_

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter One: The Man Who Stole a Heart**

One glance was all Jim needed. There were intense feelings between them that neither man was willing to discuss. _Fascinating._ The way that John stood openly toward Sherlock, relaxed with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, and the way Sherlock's usual rigidity was near non-existent in John's presence showed a unique level of trust between them; the kind that is shared by close friends and brothers in arms. The gaze Sherlock received from John Watson that was creased with worry and a sort of sad warmth was met with a sideways scowl from the consulting detective. Though it was a scowl there was no real venom behind it, only a defensiveness that people (including Sherlock, surprisingly enough) use when they're hiding something beneath the surface. John had killed for Sherlock, this Jim knew for a fact. Would Sherlock do the same for John?

_Perhaps I should write that down, test the theory at a later date, _Jim pondered. Their feelings of trust and companionship were obviously unspoken, but very tangible. Jim could practically taste it in the air around him. There was a strange sensation creeping into his limbs as he observed them. The feeling was electrifying; it was pure envy. It was an overpowering sensation that filled every inch of him as he looked and saw something he was certain that no one else was clever enough to see. The doctor and detective cared for each other, and Jim knew then what he wanted - no, _had_ - to do.

_He had to take John Watson. _

It was late evening and John was seated in front of his lap-top at the flat, trying to relax a bit. Sherlock was off doing whatever it is he wanted or needed to do, and John was trying to take a few moments to collect himself. His blog lay open with the new entry box staring at him blankly. He wanted to write, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to.

This game of Sherlock's was wearing him down, wearing him thin. He'd seen horrible things, terrifying and disgusting things in his life time. They paled in comparison now. Sherlock's particular brand of adventure made John utterly steady and still with fear and anticipation. Lives relied on that man's brilliance, and that terrified John. It terrified and excited him. He wished he could just be sensible. He wished he could just move out and move on from this life that he'd fallen into with Sherlock, but the very idea of having anything other than this life now felt impossible.

He turned his gaze to the skull that sat upon the mantle, Sherlock's "friend", and thought back to the first moment he'd met Sherlock. The brilliance blazing in those pale blue eyes and the pure genius that poured off of him had been overwhelming, intoxicating even. He tried to picture what his life would have been like had he not gone to meet Sherlock in front of 221B, when his phone rang.

The ringing was unfamiliar to him. He rarely heard his phone ring these days, and it was a bit jarring to hear the tone. He was only ever really contacted by Sherlock on a regular basis, or maybe Sarah, if he was lucky (or unlucky, depending upon whether or not Sherlock had a case). He knew immediately that it was not his absent flatmate, because Sherlock refused to do anything but text him. Texting hadn't really been John's cup of tea until he'd met Sherlock. He'd certainly adjusted many things to suit him. It occurred to John how absurd it was that he was so flexible for Sherlock. Breaking away from his thoughts, He picked up the phone and recognized the number as Barts. _Who the hell would be calling me from Barts? _John pinched the bridge of his nose briefly and pushed his irritable thoughts away to answer the phone.

"Hello?" John greeted quietly, not sure what to expect. When Molly's nerve-wracked voice filled his ears so cracked and shrill he pulled the device away from his face a bit.

"John! Oh John, it's M-Molly. I didn't know who else to call. I... It's Jim. He slipped in the morgue, and hurt his wrist. Uhm. C-Could you come by and take a look at it? All the clinics in the area are closed at this hour and he won't go to a hospital. Hates the A and E's."

Her voice was choked and nasal, making it apparent that she'd been crying and that was enough to tug at John's heartstrings. He knew that Molly was sensitive, he'd seen Sherlock just earlier today stomp on her heart (to be kinder to her of course, Sherlock justified; rubbish, in John's opinion.) and John wasn't about to make her bad day worse. He listened to her stammer and ramble on, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. When he heard Jim's terse, muffled tone on the other end he interrupted Molly's rambling.

"I'll be there in a bit. Just... Calm down." John said in his most "comforting doctor" voice he could manage. Molly took a few fluttery breaths and slowly began to settle.

"Thank you... John. Thank you. I really... uhm. Appreciate it. Oh and... D-Don't bring Sherlock. I'd rather not see him..." Molly's voice cracked again and John felt so badly for the young woman. It wasn't fair, really. Molly was so sweet and she deserved so much better than this. Sherlock was being a prick, and the one man she'd had since John met her was gay. Yes, "unfair" was the only word to describe it. However, she was resilient, through and through. John stood and grabbed his coat, slipping into it as he headed for the door.

"I'm on my way. No Sherlock. I promise." John agreed quietly, picking up his keys and wallet. As he passed through the doorway, the silvery metal of his cane caught his eye and he felt a twinge in his leg briefly. _No Sherlock._John felt his whole body tense and for a moment he was frozen in those thoughts again. A life without Sherlock. A normal, sensible life.

"I'll be there soon, Molly."

He hung up, tore his eyes away from his cane, and headed out to the street. In the cool night air he stood, and flagged down a cab, glad one responded quickly so he could get in and be on his way.

John made his way to the morgue, where he could hear Molly chattering frantically at Jim. He was seated in a chair, cradling his wrist close to his chest while Molly fretted about, an ice pack melting in her gloved left hand. As John came into the room he caught Jim's eye, and he seemed to slump at the sight of him, looking embarrassed, while Molly looked relived.

"John, thank goodness. It's his wrist see. He won't let me touch it." Molly stated curtly. John gave her a reassuring smile and took the ice from her.

"I can take it from don't you go fix us a cuppa? I'll look him over," John suggested. Jim watched closely as John's warmth and kindness in his commands seemed to work wonders on Molly and she scampered away dutifully. John waited until she was out of the door and out of ear shot before turning to Jim.

"Let's see it then." John encouraged, pulling a chair up and sitting directly across from him. Jim licked his lips tentatively, knowing his men were closing in on them at this very moment. It was exhilarating, but he wouldn't let his anticipation show. John was no Sherlock, but he certainly wasn't as blind as many people (Molly) were. John was an army doctor, with experience, training, and a callous that only comes from war.

Jim observed quietly; the battles showed on John almost plain as day, his straightened back, his squared shoulders, that military hair cut. Jim found himself wondering what he could do to bring out that soldier in John. The fighter... How intriguing it could be, pushing the right buttons to gain the proper results. John could have been a fun puzzle in another lifetime. Now, however, John was just a pawn in a grand game; his game with Sherlock. Jim played his part properly for now. He extended his "injured" wrist to John.

"I just slipped and fell on it funny. Hurts a bit..." Jim said quietly, letting John take hold of his hand. Jim took in the feel of the clinging bits of callous that remained on John's hands after his time abroad in Afghanistan as he was examined. Those war calloused fingers ran over his own (delicate in comparison) skin, pushing gently at the muscles, checking for swelling.

"Tell me if this hurts at all." John instructed calmly. Had he really been injured, perhaps he would have enjoyed John's bedside manner a great deal more. Jim nodded in response, and faked a bit of a nervous swallow. John was carefully moving his hand this way and that. Jim hissed here and there, playing the part of "injured man" to his best ability. John drew his diagnosis quite easily and sighed, putting the ice pack over Jim's wrist gently. "Probably just a slight sprain. Ice it for a while, take two paracetamol for the pain, and you'll be fine."

Jim smiled, soft, almost genuine. He looked down at his wrist, placing his hand over John's, only to feel John pulling his hand out from between the ice and his fingers.

"Why did you leave Sherlock your number...?" John's tone was accusing, and a bit hurt. For Molly or for Sherlock, Jim could not quite tell. He drew in a long and low breath.

"She deserves bette'n me... I know Molly does... I just can' help what I am... An' I also can' help but feel fer th' girl. She's so... sweet and... They all turn her down. I couldn' bear the thought of bein' another one t' hurt her... I guess I'm doin' a shit job of that though..." Jim watched John's expression carefully as he explained himself, and John seemed to grow a bit sympathetic. It was amazing to watch the expressions John made, his face was so alive it was beautiful. His eyes grew soft and warm, and his lips were pulled into a sad sort of smile, his brows furrowing just a bit. Jim drew in a slow and steady breath as John squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, but then quickly withdrew his hand.

"You're only human, Jim. Everyone makes mistakes. Let her down easy mate. She's already been through enough with Sherlock." John answered, and for a moment, John's whole demeanor (the slight squeeze of his shoulder though fleeting; the calm reassuring smile. All of it.) made Jim feel warm inside. It was a strange and fuzzy mixture of validation and gratification that he wasn't familiar with. It was rather peculiar and somewhat uncomfortable because it felt positive, and just plain _good. _

"Oh John... You're too good a man..." Jim said softly, his voice taking on a sort of sing-songy rapture as his demeanor changed and he broke free from "Jim from IT" and became Moriarty once more. John furrowed his brows and grew very stiff, immediately realizing something was terribly wrong. Jim could see John's mind working out the darkness that now had taken over his appearance. His eyes going from soft and shy to gleaming with mischief and anticipation. His back straightening as he held himself more properly instead of slouching about. Jim grinned, absolutely ecstatic as he saw John's natural intuition kicking in. It was marvelous how the moment of realization came so quickly to the doctor. _Oh he is so brilliant for an ordinary man. _Jim understood in this moment as John became guarded against him what Sherlock saw in this particularly ordinary doctor.

John's eyes grew dark, his shoulders tensing and his fingers clenching. Jim briefly wondered if John would hit him when he announced his true identity, and furthermore, if he might like that. John was eerily still, save for his left hand that twitched a bit, reflexively wanting to wrap around his gun. Jim watched every single change take place in John and he stood, straightening himself up a bit and set the ice aside.

"Jim Moriarty." he announced, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson."

Jim practically giggled with delight as he saw John's look of horror that quickly turned to rage. He watched John's fists tighten and those blunt nails dig into John's war-calloused palms.

"Bet you really wish you had your gun, Johnny boy." Jim's voice was a soft and sad purr, taunting him. Jim could see in those twitches of John's hands how much he wished he had his gun, how much the soldier desired to shoot him down right there. Even beyond all this, Jim observed the calm and cool control that was ever present in the doctor.

"Why?" John demanded. His gravelly voice caused excitement to stir in the pit of Jim's stomach (_unfamiliar, but enjoyable. You're growing more interesting by the minute, John.)_. He watched John lick his lips hurriedly, and he merely shook his head.

"Why? WHY?" Jim laughed hysterically, waving his hands in the air and gesturing all around him.

"It's so _obvious _Johnny! So obvious why! I'm a _good _person. A GREAT ONE. I solve problems for people that people just can't solve for themselves. I bend the rules and make lives better, and make a minor profit along the way. I love people John, I love watching them get away with crimes to achieve grand happiness, no matter how fleeting! I live to beat the system and free people from the mundane lives they lead. And with you and Sherlock coming in and mucking things up, well that just won't tsk tsk. No no no, Johnny dear, I cannot have the two of you running about and ruining the lives that I make perfect..."

Jim looked at John's face, at a glance seeing that he looked confused. Jim wondered if maybe he'd been wrong about the army doctor being brighter than most, but then he studied the expression more closely, discovering that the look on his face was not one of confusion, but one of repulsion. How dull. How incredibly common. Jim watched with amusement as John swallowed tightly at hearing the door behind him open and guns cock.

"Get our dear Doctor Watson ready for his big night boys. Sherlock will be ready to finally meet me soon enough..." Jim ordered. "And take care of the girl. She's too much of a risk to keep alive."

John jumped toward Moriarty, rage filling his every nerve ending as he was grabbed by two large, strong thugs. Moriarty of course, didn't flinch, though he was quite impressed (and amused) by John's courage. _I'll say courage John, but really that's just putting your stupidity into more pleasant terms._

"Don't you dare harm her. Don't you bloody dare." John ground out evenly, yanking against the men restraining him in futile attempts to get free.

"And what do I get if I don't?" Jim inquired playfully, a smirk on his lips. He watched John's muscles ripple with each forceful tug he made trying to get away, cataloguing the man's strength and hazard potential. John remained intently silent, not playing into Jim's games, much to the man's disappointment. Jim wiggled his fingers in a teasing little wave, and then blew a kiss at John as the army doctor was dragged away.

"See you soon enough Johnny..."


	2. The Man with a Heart of Steel

_**Oh my goodness guys, thank you for all the reviews! I was really surprised at all the feed back I was getting. I'm really sorry for the bizarre typos in the last chapter. For some reason, when I uploaded the document to and posted it, it just like, left out a bunch of words here and there. I'm not really sure why (I'll re-upload and fix it soon).**_

_**Anyway, I'm really glad you all seemed to enjoy that first chapter, and now, we move forward on to "post-the-great-game". As always, please be sure to leave me your thoughts and let me know if you want more! I thrive on positive feedback. Now, without further ado, onward to chapter two!**_

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter two: The Man with the Heart of Steel**

Quiet. That was all Sherlock was aware of. The sort of earth shattering quiet that was common after a gunshot. _Where had the bullet landed_, Sherlock wondered. _Where is John? Did Moriarty escape?_ All the questions in his head filled the eerie silence he felt around him, creating a horrid static of pure white noise in his mind. Why did it suddenly have to be so loud? Sherlock tried to quiet his mind and gain back the peace of eerie silence but it wasn't coming. He clenched his teeth, thinking for a moment that he was feeling them bend under the pressure, his body somewhere between excruciatingly awake and blissfully unconsciousness. His mind felt like it had been gripped tight by a vice and was now screaming in protest. He couldn't think, and at the same time, too many thoughts were spilling in. He jerked a bit, trying to shake away the thoughts and feelings plaguing every inch of his being.

"Sherlock?" a quiet and somewhat nervous voice inquired of him as his fingers twitched and his breathing became more ragged. He was kicking out of his unconscious state, but at the cost of sudden increasing awareness of pain once more. _Is that John? No. That voice is familiar, but not John. Male, definitely male. Prissy, just a bit, annunciation of my name slightly irritated, but real worry in there somewhere. Why can't I place it? Ah yes..._

"Mycroft," Sherlock wheezed a bit, the pieces falling into place slower than he would have initially liked. He spat the name of his brother out like it tasted foul, heard his brother sigh in response. He could guess what his brothers face looked like, so he didn't open his eyes just yet, knowing that he wasn't ready to face the sight of wherever he may be.

"Where am I? Where is John?" Sherlock immediately began to probe his brother for this vital information. _Has John been hurt? Why is John not here?_Mycroft didn't answer, and he became slightly perturbed by Sherlock's insistent worry for John (it really wasn't like his brother to worry about people), but Sherlock heard the tell tale tap of the end of an umbrella against the floor that gave away everything Sherlock needed to know. Consistent tapping, just light, in a steady rhythm of fourth beats. The habit was a rather revealing tell. Mycroft was nervous. Surely he didn't think that just because his eyes were closed, that Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell? Sherlock knew his brothers mannerisms well, by sight, smell, _and_ sound. Growing up with him had seen to that.

"Rest, Sherlock. You need to rest," his brother cooed. It was mostly a sham, Sherlock could tell, attempting to cajole his rather feisty (_irritating_) younger sibling. He'd not been this close to losing Sherlock in quite some time and it was a painful thing to think about. He didn't like the idea losing the last of his family and didn't want to dwell on it now. Now his focus was on getting Sherlock safe and healthy and as far away from this Moriarty business as possible. This had gone on long enough. Sherlock, however, was pushing his mind into gear and observing with all senses but sight, as his eyes hurt and felt like they were glued shut with tears and mucus. His only goal was to get back on his feet and back on the case. He wanted to get Moriarty now more than ever.

As he took in what little he could, Sherlock noted the pungent smell of chlorine lingering all around him, as well as heavy antiseptic and freshly laundered linens. The chlorine smell was causing his eyes to water and nose to burn a bit, and he knew where that must have come from, his encounter at the pool, quite obviously. He felt sticky and deduced that the intense smell was clinging to him, though He hadn't remembered falling in it was clear now that he must have. He wasn't getting a straight answer from Mycroft, but The beeping rhythmically grating upon his ears and the mixed scent of clean laundry and antiseptic was a good indication of where he was, a hospital. But since it was quiet save for the beeping, likely a private room. Mycroft would have arranged it for him, knowing how much Sherlock valued peace, quiet, and privacy when he wasn't feeling well.

Despite the quiet of the room his brain wasn't shifting gears properly and it was hard to think straight, which was incredibly bothersome for the consulting detective. Sherlock finally gathered the courage necessary and opened his eyes, only to be blinded immediately by the harshness of florescent bulbs. Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but there was a harsh jolt of pain in his shoulder, that exploded into a rocket of white hot agony down through his whole body to his fingertips and toes. Mycroft gave a heavy sigh as he watched his little brother struggle to hold in a cry of pain, feeling the pull of paternal worry he felt toward Sherlock tug at his heart a bit. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck, squeezing his tense muscles a bit. Sherlock's jaw was tight and his back rigid with his incredible discomfort.

"You refused pain medication, oddly enough," Mycroft informed him, knowing Sherlock's mind was working at fifty percent of it's normal capacity, the pain and trauma clearly putting him in a haze. He wasn't enjoying watching Sherlock battle said haze either; it was nothing short of excruciating really. Sherlock's throat tightened and threatened to let loose a scream if he dared move his body again. He lay bonelessly against the sheets and gulped down breath after breath of much needed air until he finally calmed himself long enough to raise his demands yet again.

"Where is John?" Sherlock pried again, only to watch his brother's eyes dart away and those long pale finger's curl tighter around the handle of his brolly. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, causing the machines he was hooked up to to begin beeping differently. Mycroft soon realized that Sherlock's behavior was intentionally like that of a petulant child and that until Mycroft answered him, he would hold his breath. His heart rate was already changing. Mycroft let out a gruff sigh and shook his head.

"Sherlock, stop that. What would Mummy say?" Mycroft scolded, watching his brothers pale face begin to redden with lack of oxygen. Mycroft waited a moment longer before he gave in.

"We have yet to locate Doctor Watson. He was not at the pool upon my team's arrival.

All traces of Moriarty and the good doctor were gone. Just you, shot, belly up in the pool. We imagine that your shoulder was the intended target and that the force knocked you off balance and into the water. We've yet to review the security cameras but we will be searching all possible leads for your colleague."

Moriarty had made a grand escape, and Sherlock knew deep down that he'd taken John with him. He'd taken John once before, so easily right from under Sherlock's nose, what would stop him from doing it again? This time he'd made quite the show of it. Sherlock felt so much pain and guilt he was not sure his mind could take it. Mycroft knew all too well that beneath his facade of being a high functioning sociopath, was Sherlock's true feelings. He knew Sherlock fancied, maybe even loved a few times before. Always the wrong sort, in his opinion.

But John was different. John Watson was everything his dear brother Sherlock was not. He was warm, kind hearted, infinitely patient, determined, smart (in an entirely different way than either he or Sherlock themselves were), and all around a loving individual. Mycroft approved of this army doctor the moment he'd refused to spy on Sherlock for him. Finally, someone worthy of his little brother, who had enough integrity not to let Mycroft, or anyone else for that matter, bully him around. Sherlock was feeling the great loss already, as if it were a death. Mycroft could tell just by looking at him.

"I've arranged a safe house for you, away from here for the time being, and a doctor to look after you while you recover," Mycroft said gently, his voice quiet, and paternal in it's tone. Mycroft had always felt that he needed to protect his little brother, and now more than ever. He'd let this go on too far. He'd given Sherlock too much freedom, and hadn't watched closely enough. He felt no guilt, but merely, responsibility about the situation and he needed to correct it before it got worse.

"No," came Sherlock's sharp reply. He didn't want any doctor except_ his_ doctor. He didn't want to go hide in some safe house while Moriarty had John. He had to find John. The chances were slim, but still there was one. He just had to draw Moriarty out into the open... He had to at least try. "No safe houses. No relocation. I'm not diving into hiding while Moriarty has John. That's absurd. Horrid. Out of the question." Mycroft sighed heavily and tapped his brolly handle against the railing of Sherlock's bed.

"Sherlock, you can't honestly think that you'll be able to find John like this. Not with a hole in your shoulder. Let my people work on it. Until then, go into hiding where it's safe. If you die at the hands of that ridiculous criminal, John will have suffered for nothing. I know how much he thinks of you Sherlock. He would not want you to risk yourself," Mycroft protested calmly. Sherlock snorted in response, not even looking at his brother. Surely Mycroft knew better than to suggest he sit back and do nothing. His brain would rot, his muscles would atrophy; his world would screech to a halt, cease to exist.

"Stop being so melodramatic Sherlock," Mycroft snipped as he saw the subtle thoughts flitting across Sherlock's face and through his cool blue eyes. His brother may have been an enigma to most, but they just didn't see Sherlock like Mycroft saw him. They couldn't possibly have the capacity to.

"John is an idiot," Sherlock spat, his voice like venom to hide the worry that lie beneath (though Mycroft saw right through him). Moriarty said he was going to burn the heart out of him, and he'd taken away Sherlock's moral compass. John had been good for Sherlock. They'd worked well together, and Moriarty had taken that away.

Mycroft wasn't unaccustomed to his brother's stubbornness, so he would not back down now. He rose from his seat beside Sherlock's bed and leaned over him, examining his brother's wound and then his vital signs on the machines once more. Sherlock pretended to ignore him, but it was difficult when he saw his brother's face creased so subtly with worry.

"Sherlock, we will do everything in our power to find John. You need to rest… I'll be here to get you out as soon as you're well enough… Then it's off to a safe house, whether you like it or not," Mycroft stated calmly but firmly, petting his brother's hair a bit, shaking his head at the feel of how cold and clammy his brother's brow was. "For your own good."

All Sherlock could manage in response to his brother's worry was a simple, "Piss off."


	3. The Long Drive Home

_**Hey guy, I'm sorry this is late. I had planned to update every Tuesday but well. This fic is really drawing itself out and begging for insane amounts of detail and attention! So there will be TWO updates this week, one today and one in the next couple of days depending upon my schedule. This update was sort of something that just really flowed from me and I know you all want to know what happened to John, but it'll be just a little while longer! Soon my lovies! Soon. Just keep on reviewing and I promise I'll get there! I thrive on your positive feedback!**_

_**The Persistence of Memory**_

_**Chapter three: The Long Drive Home**_

Five days in a hospital bed was all the consulting detective could stand, and Mycroft had watched his brother's patience wear thin as the days passed.

By the second morning he was unnaturally cross with the nurses. Sherlock was being intentionally cruel to all who dared even look at him for more than a few minutes. As the second day progressed, Sherlock was able to sit up again. Naturally he'd demanded that the case files from the night of John's kidnapping at the pool be brought to him. He wanted to work as much as possible. Lestrade had said no at first, but with Mycroft like a hawk at Sherlock's side, a few words was all Mycroft had needed to gain access to the files. He'd give anything to have Sherlock at least remotely himself. Giving his brother's brain something to do other than think up ways to make the nurses cry was definitely the best thing to do.

Sherlock had looked over every photo, every report, everything a dozen times in the next day and a half, and then he'd demanded to see CCTV from the surrounding area (precisely five square miles at the least) from the first two hours before their meeting at the pool and the hour after the kidnapping. He also wanted all security footage from the pool itself from that entire day.

When Lestrade (who was regretting his regular visits to Sherlock more and more) refused that, Mycroft again, decided he'd oblige Sherlock.

"On one condition Sherlock. I'll get you the tapes but," Mycroft tipped up the end of his brolly, examining it a bit as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Sherlock waited, refusing to look at his brother, knowing what Mycroft would ask of him. "You come stay with me. It's not a safe house, but safer than your flat. We have moved Mrs. Hudson out of for her safety, you already know. I would rather not have you in any more danger Sherlock. Not until you're fully well again. Seeing as you can hardly move your arm..."

Sherlock tensed as he tried to lift his arm, his tendons not responding properly, and his fingers trembling. The doctor's had informed Sherlock that he had extensive nerve damage. The shot had been close range: the entry wound was like a delicate pinprick, and the exit wound will mar his flesh for life, mangled like a burning gouge on the back of his shoulder. He briefly wondered if his would resemble John's wound in any way. He wanted badly to examine the doctor's scarring, measure the entry and exit wounds, determine different bullet passage patterns.

Sherlock gave a slight whimper as his fist clenched of it's own volition, eerily tight, making his whole arm hurt. Mycroft carefully reached out and placed a steady hand over his brother's trembling fist.

"You'd be better off with family, Sherlock, you'll go mad if you're on your own," Mycroft said quietly, his tone firm but reassuring. It reminded Sherlock of when they were children and the other boys would pick on him for being different. Mycroft had graduated by the time Sherlock was getting on to secondary school, and when Sherlock would come home a mess from the bullying, Mycroft would always make him feel normal again. It was a dysfunctional relationship, they had.

Mycroft theorized that once he'd moved out of their home and gone away to university, Sherlock hadn't been able to properly establish new boundaries. The two had been close; Sherlock had needed Mycroft's protection, and suddenly it was as if a limb was missing. Mycroft had felt the change in his brother, and the gap between them had gotten bigger and bigger as the years passed.

Mycroft could feel Sherlock's lingering resentment at family engagements for the years to come and on every visit he'd make to his brother it was always the same. Sherlock's eyes would gaze into him, flashing him an accusatory look of "_I still haven't forgiven you._" and Mycroft resolved after a while that it would be better if he kept his distance. He let Sherlock become closed off, less human, more sociopath. Now he regretted leaving his brother's side with their rather neurotic mother and often absent father. He could see now as he looked at Sherlock in the hospital bed, dressing gown swathed around his frail looking form over the hospital garments, that fragile little boy in Sherlock buried beneath the hard, cold, and calculating genius.

Sherlock's fingers relaxed out of the fist and he gave a shaky sigh. He reached his opposite hand up and slid his fingers over the satin of his blue dressing gown Mycroft had brought it from the flat for him. He felt the bulge of his bandaging beneath.

"Is there room enough for me to bring some things from my flat?" Sherlock's voice sounded defeated by the pain that dragged against each syllable. Mycroft nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his watch. He checked the time, and let loose a sigh, his steady but gentle hand leaving his brother's trembling one.

"Of course. I'll have Anthea pick up a list of things for you tomorrow. Have it written up for me before I return to retrieve you tomorrow evening. I have business to attend to tonight."

Sherlock licked his dry lips and sighed heavily (dramatically), rolling his eyes at his brother, though all his irritation was lost on Mycroft. Mycroft returned the next evening to collect him. He could hear Sherlock ordering nurses out of his room so he could change, protesting that he could remove his own IV and for them to "crawl back to their desks to gossip like the useless twats they were." Mycroft slipped into the room, a nurse brushing hurriedly past him in a huff. One nurse still had yet to be shaken, and Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed looking like an annoyed house cat while his IV was removed. Mycroft shook his head at his brother and gave a slight snort of mild amusement as Sherlock yanked his arm away when she'd finished.

"All right then, Sherlock, are you ready to leave?" Mycroft inquired softly, watching his brother struggle to dress with only one arm. Without giving it much more thought, Mycroft set his brolly aside and swept over to Sherlock's side, helping Sherlock shuck off his dressing gown and hospital garments.

"I've been ready since I woke up. These prats call themselves doctors. They're no good. None of them," Sherlock muttered, allowing Mycroft to help him, setting his dignity aside in lieu of necessity. He needed to get dressed and get out of here. Now. Mycroft picked up Sherlock's pants and knelt down, feeling Sherlock's hand grasp his shoulder for balance as he stepped in. Mycroft pulled the cloth up Sherlock's thighs, letting him finished that job with his good hand. He repeated the actions with Sherlock's trousers and then stepped behind him to let him slid into his shirt, before carefully doing up the front buttons. There was absolute silence between them as they worked to get him dressed. Mycroft even obliged helping Sherlock into his socks and shoes. Once they were done, Mycroft straightened, unnaturally tense, grabbing his brolly and squeezing the handle for reassurance.

"Thanks," Sherlock said, his voice deep and near inaudible. Mycroft didn't respond as he pulled a wheel chair over to where Sherlock stood. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother and shook his head. He grabbed the sling the nurses had provided him and slipped it over his head, placing his arm inside it.

"That will not be necessary, Mycroft." Sherlock said. He collected what was left of his things; his mobile had been destroyed by the water at the pool, his wallet was soaked through, and all his money was drenched and had now dried into a fragile parchment within. As Sherlock gazed at his things he sighed. Such a shame. Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor a few times before clearing his throat.

"The car is waiting. If we go now we won't miss supper." Mycroft urged calmly. Sherlock's face lit up with recognition. Mycroft's wife, his housekeeper, his two children who Sherlock rarely saw. He swallowed uneasily. His own sister-in-law and nephews, whom he hardly knew. This promised to be uncomfortable at best. Sherlock was already devising ways to avoid them and keep to himself. He supposed his injury would be excuse enough to stay locked up or away. Mycroft shook his head and rolled his eyes at Sherlock, leading the way out to the car with his brother on his heels. "I know you have hardly eaten while here. Can't blame you entirely for that, considering the food here is rubbish. However, Sherlock, you must eat a good meal if you expect to get better. My housekeeper, Gretta, is a very good cook and she's making one of your favorites, potato and leek soup."

Sherlock halted in his steps as he saw just how hard Mycroft was trying to make him feel better. He was attempting to be warm, welcoming, and comforting. Perhaps out of guilt. Didn't matter anyhow, because the fact of the matter was, Mycroft was doing it. He was being a _brother._ Their strained relationship was a rocky one and Sherlock felt the tenseness in his chest when he thought of Mycroft slowly ease away for just a moment. Mycroft realized he was no longer following and he turned toward him, umbrella pressed against the scratched linoleum.

"Sherlock...?" Mycroft inquired after him, worry lacing his voice as he looked at his brother's weary face. Sherlock was kicked out of his own thoughts and nodded, catching up with Mycroft. The pair made their way out the door and to the car where Anthea was waiting for them. They clambered into the back seat. Sherlock sighed softly, the smell of ginger tea filling his nose. Anthea had opened a thermos and was pouring a cup of it. Sherlock fought to not smile as she extended it to him.

"Here you are. I've been informed you haven't had a proper cup of tea in a few days," she explained as he took the small mug from her hands. Sherlock read in every inch of her body that she really didn't give a toss about him, and that it was on his brother's orders that she had brought this tea along. He took a sip and let the spicy sweet tea warm him from head to toe. His skin rose with goosebumps as he could practically taste all the summers he and his brother had spent together, picnics in the woods, tea in thermoses, hiding away from the rest of the world while they created forts for themselves in trees and imagined what they might do with the rest of their lives.

"_Mycroft, what do you want to be when you grow up?" Sherlock asked, his bright blue eyes shining as he gazed up at the sky through gaps in the trees from where he sat on the grassy forest floor._

"_I'm not sure Sherlock. Maybe something powerful. Like... a maharajah. Live in a palace with all those servants, rule my own country..." Mycroft replied with a little laugh. _

¶_Sherlock snorted._

"_That's hardly a logical choice Mycroft..."_

Sherlock was consumed by his own thoughts as they drove, and Mycroft seemed tense but content. In fact, he almost seemed pleased to be taking Sherlock home with him. When they arrived at Mycroft's home tucked away in Hampstead, Sherlock had finished the entire thermos of tea. They got out of the car and headed in without so much as a word to Anthea.

Mycroft lead the way up the steps and opened the door for Sherlock, gesturing for him to enter the richly decorated foyer. Sherlock smiled a bit as he took in the very warm and classic decor of the home, heading toward the parlor. He hadn't been here since he'd broken in nearly four years ago to steal a file he wanted from his brother, and it was nice to be able to take the time to simply appreciate the look of the place.

The smell of cooking was wafting through from the kitchen, making Sherlock's mouth water a bit. He truly was hungry. Mycroft came up behind him as Sherlock stepped into the parlor and gently rested a hand on his brother's uninjured shoulder.

"Lara will be along shortly. She took the children to the cinema this afternoon and they're on their way home now," he informed quietly. "Please make yourself at home. I'll have Gretta show you to your room in a moment."

Mycroft was so fluid and comfortable in his own home. It was almost bizarre to see him so relaxed. Sherlock eyed him curiously as he slid away and back the hall so he could venture upstairs._ Likely to change_, thought Sherlock, _he's too practical to wear a three piece suit like that to a dinner in with his family..._

Sherlock looked about, seeing toys in a basket in the corner and children's books all over the lower shelves of the book cases. He even recognized a few as the books he and Mycroft had read growing up. Strange how Mycroft had held onto these things. It was hard to wrap his mind around his brother being the sentimental type, but he was. Sherlock was just sitting down in a stuffed arm chair when he heard the bustle of Mycroft's family coming into the foyer.

"Settle down boys, settle. Your uncle Sherlock is here and we don't want to bother him. He's not feeling well." The smooth and strong voice of Mycroft's sensible, plain as parchment wife Lara carried from the foyer to the parlor and Sherlock felt his lips twitching slightly in response. She was a very kind woman. Sherlock remembered meeting her for the first time and wondering what Mycroft was doing with a woman like her. She wasn't very clever, though she was educated; she wasn't particularly attractive, just a bland sort of pretty with her sandy blond hair and chocolate colored eyes.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to parlor entrance as he watched his two sandy haired nephews scamper into the room. Quinton was the older, and Sherlock could see a great deal of his brother in the seven year old's features, though he had his mother's hair. The younger, Stephen, was only four, and he was a spitting image of his mother. The pair were ogling him. He must look quiet a mess to gain such peculiar looks from his nephews. He hadn't seen them since three days after Stephen was born. Sherlock preferred to keep his distance.

"Hello boys." Sherlock greeted as they looked at him shyly. Lara was soon entering behind them, and she gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile.

"Hello Sherlock. Mycroft in?" she asked, ushering her boys over to their toys. She whispered at them to play quietly before she took a seat on the couch adjacent to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded as he looked Lara over. She had aged just a bit since he'd seen her last. She was starting to gray a bit and there were defined smile lines and little crows feet on her face. She was smiling, but it was sad, not quite reaching her eyes. She was doing her best to appear sympathetic, but they were barely acquaintances in his mind, and surely less in hers.

"He's gone upstairs to change before dinner I imagine," Sherlock explained quietly. Then it was quiet between them. Uncomfortably so. Sherlock could tell as she looked away from him and twiddled her fingers in her lap that she wanted to make some form of small talk but could think of nothing to say that would even remotely interest Sherlock. He was almost grateful for her silence, not wanting to talk anyway. Sherlock just prayed Mycroft hurried up and made it down; he wasn't sure how much more he could take of this strange family reunion.

When Mycroft made his way into the room, he was dressed in grey slacks, a periwinkle pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Sherlock had almost forgotten how incredibly normal and human his brother really was. A bit of bitterness struck Sherlock's heart as Mycroft smiled warmly at his wife and she quickly moved to greet him with a firm and welcoming embrace and chaste kiss. Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock who looked bored to say the least, but didn't call attention to him. He instead, turned attention to his children, whom he approached and greeted as they played. His voice was soft as he asked them about their outing. They answered, the younger more animatedly and excitedly retelling the days (dull) events.

The genuine smile on his brother's face was borderline sickening, but Lara seemed a tad distracted. Her fingers were brushing over her lips and she was staring into space. Her mind was elsewhere. The way one arm wrapped around her stomach while guilt seemed to crease her forehead. Sherlock came to a rather unpleasant conclusion.

_Pregnant, but she hasn't told him. Possible reasons: 1. Doesn't want another child. (Unlikely, considering she hardly has to parent at all as it is, but plausible due to her age; perhaps it's health risks that are worrying her) 2. It isn't Mycroft's child (She's too sensible to have a casual affair; also unlikely, but still possible) 3... _Sherlock's thoughts were _rudely_ interrupted by Mycroft's voice.

"Sherlock, dinner will be ready shortly. Will you join us please?" It was spoken like a request or suggestion, but Mycroft's eyes spoke of command. Lara seemed to pull out of her own reverie as Mycroft spoke and she ushered the children them toward the dining room. Once they were out of the room, Sherlock rose and approached his brother as calmly as he could manage. His body was trembling a bit, exhaustion as well as injury weighing him down. Mycroft frowned a bit and shook his head, knowing Sherlock had seen what he'd been seeing for ages.

"Don't do anything harmful Sherlock. I know, yes, but I'm not concerned. Whatever the case, it is mine to deal with. not for you. Please refrain from upsetting Lara by bringing it up. She's been quite fragile as of late," Mycroft said softly, rubbing the back of his neck and giving a weary sigh. Sherlock wanted to argue, but didn't.

"Let's just eat, shall we," Sherlock said firmly. Mycroft gave one curt nod of agreement and they headed into the dining room together.


	4. The Burned Heart

_**Here we go! Chapter four! Just as promised I've updated again this week! I haven't any idea how you guys are going to respond to this chapter but, go into it with one thought in your head. EVERYTHING IS NOT ALWAYS WHAT IT SEEMS. It's time to get into the Sherlock mind-set! Because the mystery of John will unfold piece by piece. If you want me to continue on, don't forget to let me know what you thought! I'm sucker for feedback. Now, Thank you to all of you who have reviewed so far. You guys are awesome. Enjoy!**_

**Chapter Four: The Burned Heart**

It was two and a half weeks before Sherlock finally gave up. He'd watched all his security tapes over and over again, looking intently for some kind of clue, some hint as to where John was taken. He'd spent hours at a time locked up in the guest room, just watching the tapes with the curtains drawn and the lights off. Now it was just like a sick torture he was inflicting on himself. He kept insisting that he was missing something important, that he just wasn't looking hard enough.

Mycroft would come up from time to time to bring him some tea and biscuits, and the housekeeper did the same, though she would insist upon sandwiches and soup, trying to get him to eat only to be ignored as if she were simply a piece of furniture. His meals would go cold or stale, and his tea would remain untouched until Mycroft would come up and threaten to put him back in the hospital if he didn't eat and shower.

It was late at night when Mycroft got home from work, and as per usual, he wanted to just go to bed but duty to his brother made him trek up to the guest room. He opened the door unannounced, finding Sherlock laying like a corpse on the bed, so deathly still that for a moment, in the cool blue light of the telly, (still playing CCTV footage) he looked as if he'd passed away. Mycroft approached the bed and sat down on the edge uninvited, setting his brolly against the nightstand.

Sherlock's eyes flicked away from the ceiling and over to his brother, slowly turning his head. He looked so forlorn, so worn down. It was a puzzle he just couldn't solve and Mycroft knew that it would take a great deal to get Sherlock to bounce back.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and quiet.

Mycroft shook his head somberly and returned the question.

"And you...?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, curling up in a ball and pulling his dressing gown about him. He sighed heavily and shook his head, though Mycroft had known he would do so. John had been missing for seventeen days now. Seventeen long and miserable days. He and Mycroft sat there in tense silence for nearly ten minutes before it was broken by the chime of Sherlock's phone. Sherlock sat up as his phone was extended to him by his brother.

He felt his chest seize as his trembling hand closed around his phone and pulled it out of Mycroft's hand. He gazed at the screen intently, his brows knitting together and his mouth pulling into a tight line of irritation. It was a call from Lestrade. This was the first one in weeks, and Sherlock had almost hoped he'd never hear from Lestrade again, at least not until he'd found John and murdered Moriarty. The consulting detective wasn't sure he was ready to take on a case. He didn't need another case on top of this personal one. He couldn't go back to solving crimes for The Yard without John here by his side.

Mycroft frowned, furrowing his brows a bit as he read his brother's face and stature where the man sat in the darkness on the bed.

"John wouldn't want you to stop working," Mycroft urged quietly.

Sherlock silently cursed Mycroft for speaking of John as if he were dead. If Moriarty had wanted to kill John, he would have. But he took him, and therefore John was alive. Sherlock still did not answer. The ringing ceased and Sherlock's fingers curled around his phone tightly. It was barely thirty-six seconds later when his phone chirped for attention-a text message.

_Come to the yard asap_.

Sherlock didn't move as he read the text. Fourteen more seconds and another chime. Sherlock huffed indignantly, shaking his head and closing his eyes for a moment before opening the message.

_You need to see this._

Twenty seconds. Another chime. Still Sherlock was rooted to the spot.

_It's about John._

Sherlock's face lit up with a mixture of anxiety and hope. Both emotions were too bizarre on Sherlock's face for Mycroft's taste, and it worried him a great deal. There was only one thing that could have sent him suddenly into action: this had to do with John Watson. Mycroft watched as his brother dashed about, not bothering to dress properly. He merely threw his coat on over his pyjamas and dressing gown, taking off down the stairs without even a second glance at Mycroft. Mycroft was up in an instant, grabbing his brolly and following behind him.

"Mycroft! I need a lift!" he called, knowing the elder Holmes was not far behind him. Sherlock slid into the passenger seat of Mycroft's personal vehicle and waited for his brother to catch up, his knee bouncing nervously. Mycroft joined him in the car a moment later, started it up, and then they were on there way. Tense silence had fallen between the two brothers as they sped toward their destination.

Upon arrival at the Yard, there was police tape and officers and flashing lights all around the entrance, and there stood Lestrade in the midst of the chaos, looking pale, and confused. Sherlock sprang from the car onto the scene before Mycroft had even made it to a full stop. Sherlock ignored his brother's shout of irritation at his brash behavior, praying that this wasn't about to be a homicide crime scene, and slipped under the tape, jogging up to Lestrade.

Anderson and Lestrade were standing over a body that was charred beyond recognition right on the steps of the building. Sherlock could hear Lestrade talking but everything suddenly became muffled by the sound of his heart hammering in his chest and his brain churning as he took in the sight and observed all the evidence. Approximately the same height as John, similar build, what was left of the corpse showed that the man had been muscled and strong like the military doctor but not too toned, out of shape just a tad. Male, probably in his late thirties too. He almost didn't want to know.

Moriarty's voice echoed in his mind and drowned out all the facts and observations he made.

_Burn the heart... ou' of you..._

"... we took an impression of his teeth and compared it to John's dental records... to be sure... It's... It's him. Also... his body was left here with this." Sherlock tuned back in to Lestrade, his vision blurring as a long sleek box in an evidence bag was held out to him. It was a simple, black gift box with a white parchment card attached, and as he took the box Sherlock saw the scrawling print on the card read:

'_To My Dear Sherlock, Love M' _This made Sherlock's throat constrict uncomfortably and he felt something wet on his face. John was dead and Moriarty was still playing this game. This stupid game of wits had cost him his only friend.

Mycroft's hand was on his shoulder and it began urging him to turn around. Sherlock pivoted his body to face his brother, and Mycroft sighed heavily when he saw the tears sliding down Sherlock's blank face, having not witnessed his younger brother truly shed tears in quite some time. Sherlock didn't seem very aware of the tears tracking their way down his rather gaunt face, and that made it even more difficult to watch.

"Let's get him inside," Mycroft said to Lestrade, rubbing his brother's shoulders a bit. He hadn't seen Sherlock like this since they were teens, and it was startling to say the least. Sherlock felt as if he'd gone numb, his whole body sort of just moving of it's own volition without his mind in control. That charred body outside was John. John was dead. It was _his_ fault. These thoughts were consuming Sherlock. He knew he needed now, more than ever, to push emotion aside and work. He had to catch Moriarty, and clearly, to do that, he had to continue playing this game. He was left a clue, after all.

The box inside the evidence bag became like a security blanket quite suddenly, his one and only clue, his piece to this ever growing puzzle of Moriarty's. He clung to it tightly, needing something to hold on to as his mind began to drown in a hundred thousand trains of thought, anything but the overwhelming feeling of remorse and guilt that would surely cloud his judgement. He had to drown that out. He let Mycroft and Lestrade lead him into the Yard and into the quiet of an interrogation room, away from everyone and everything else. Lestrade watched with worry and sympathy as Sherlock sat at the table where he gingerly placed the parcel on the smooth metal surface.

"Gloves," Sherlock rasped, his deep baritone just a cracked remnant of it's usual power. Lestrade left the room in a hurry, leaving Mycroft to watch over Sherlock until he returned moments later with gloves for him to use. Mycroft and Lestrade were curious as to what was in the box and worried for what it's contents would do to Sherlock. The consulting detective slid the gloves on and opened the thick plastic evidence bag, intently ignoring the few tears that were drying in sticky paths on his cheeks. _Irrelevant. Emotion is pointless. Emotion will not help me find Moriarty. Emotion will not bring John back._ He needed to open this box, this box would tell him all he wanted and needed to know; he insisted this to himself, unable to accept anything less. He lifted the light, cardboard lid and felt frozen when he saw what lay within.

It was the burgundy jumper John had been wearing the night they'd confronted Moriarty at the pool. Sherlock could smell John's aftershave clinging to the fabric along with his natural musk, and the familiarity was intensely disturbing for the man, but somehow it was also comforting. He gently lifted the garment out of the box and beneath it was John's mobile, and in a clear case was a disc clearly labelled "Play Me."

Mycroft watched with quiet fascination as Sherlock's gears began churning with thought, those eyes lighting up with fascination as he did all he could to throw himself into this case like it were any other.

"I need a laptop. Or a disc player. Something so I may watch this," Sherlock ordered. Mycroft nodded, looking to Lestrade with a quirked brow and a tilt of his head. Lestrade swallowed uneasily and nodded, clearing his throat a bit.

"My laptop is in my car. I'll have it brought in."

Sherlock waited patiently for them to bring him the computer and then he insisted, much to Lestrade's irritation, that he watch it alone. Sherlock tuned out the argument about it being evidence and was stubborn as a mule about it. Had Mycroft not been there to usher Lestrade away, Sherlock probably wouldn't have gotten what he wanted. He watched Mycroft and Lestrade leave, the door closing behind them, and then finally he glanced at the one way glass across the room from him, knowing they would be keeping an eye on him from there. Fair enough, as long as he was the only one looking at the tape right now. ¶With a somewhat shaky hand he opened the disc drive on the side of the machine and placed the disc into the player, pulling up the file and opening it. The media player filled his screen and he folded his hands on the table top as he began to watch intently.


	5. The Brave Little Soldier

_**Holy crap this is late. I apologize. I would have been done sooner, just been really busy with my personal life. SO. Anyway. This chapter is potentially a pretty disturbing one. If you're really sensitive and stuff, I'd just tread carefully. I tried to be detailed but not tooooo graphic. Can't say I accomplished that. I promise there is no rape/noncon/dubcon/sexual situations on the tape. This one is a bit shorter, BUT, please review! Your reviews keep me warm at night and fuel my writing fire!**_

**Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter Five**

**The Brave Little Soldier**

Flickering dead air, gray, black, white static for a few moments on the screen, and then, a picture. Blurred at first, the photo slowly comes into focus as someone fiddles with the lens. There it is, crystal clear now. The image has come into focus and what Sherlock sees creates in him a new beastly form of rage he'd not known possible. John Watson was tied to a chair, arms secured behind his back and ankles tied to the legs of the chair and gagged with a piece of fabric that was tight enough to be rubbing his stubbled cheeks raw. He was wearing his jeans and just his undershirt, his shoes, shirt and jumper gone.

Sherlock reached out and touched the soft jumper where it sat on the table without even thinking about it. The date and time counter in the bottom right corner of the recording gave Sherlock the chills. This was John Watson sixteen days ago. Sixteen days ago John had been tied to a chair in a room under a free swinging florescent bulb while Sherlock had floundered aimlessly in attempts to find some clue that would lead him to John's location. Sherlock could deduce many things from the room John was in and he could easily determine just what part of town John had been in, but all that was useless now.

Sherlock watched closely as the video sped up, the numbers on the counter moving quickly, as the tape skipped ahead five days and four and a quarter hours. Periodically someone else would come into frame and give him water or take him out of the room, only to bring him back and secure him again. John's head lolled a bit and he looked as if he might be asleep, but as soon as the sound of Moriarty's expensive shoes clicking against the cracked tile floor echoed in the distance, John was awake and alert, his head shooting up as he stared straight ahead at the camera. He'd been waiting.

_So brilliantly attentive John, the military in you is amazing. Was amazing. _Sherlock chewed idly on his lower lip as he watched his enemy slowly step into frame, clean and presentable, making John's state look so much worse. Chapped lips, mussed hair, dark circles, and the slightest hallows forming in his cheeks were etched in John's digital image, burning themselves a permanent place in Sherlock's hard drive. He would not be able to forget or delete this from his mind any time soon, nor would he shake the cold sickness in his core- the cold sickness of guilt.

Moriarty's fingers undid the gag and tossed it aside, then gently slid over John's cheek in an almost intimate way, much like the way one lover would caress another. _Useless comparison. Delete. Delete. Delete, _Sherlock urged his mind to not slip away from reality for even a moment. He simply couldn't afford to. Sherlock would have expected John to flinch away from such a touch (it would have been understandable), or to get angry (even more likely), but John gave no reaction. He gave Moriarty not a single response; he wouldn't allow him the satisfaction. No, Sherlock observed closely, and he gave not even the slightest twitch of his face.

"Smile for the camera and say hello, Johnny boy. It'll be the last of you anyone ever sees," Jim cooed in a lilting, teasing tone, the playfulness of his manner making Sherlock's jaw clench so hard his teeth felt they might crack under the pressure as he watched Moriarty bend into frame and wave like a child at the camera with a false and taunting grin on his face. John looked down at his feet, his head not moving, but his eyes falling instead. Jim noticed, of course he did. He, like Sherlock, noticed everything. Sherlock's body was eerily still as he screamed internally for the ever silent John to fight Moriarty off and make a grand escape as if this were some sort of lucid nightmare he could change the outcome of through sheer will.

Jim's fingers gripped tight at John's hair and he yanked his head harshly to the side, and John's face twitched a bit. Sherlock noticed the movement of firm muscle under John's shirt, the tight white cotton revealing all motion. His deltoids and biceps were flexing and Sherlock knew that behind his back, John was clenching and unclenching his fingers. Forming and then unforming fists. There was almost no movement in John's chest his breathing was calm and steady, slow and shallow. He was controlling every instinct in his body, every natural reaction was being overridden by harsh self control and military training.

The soft and sensible Doctor Watson had given way to the military man at John's core. Perhaps he was experiencing a bit of PTSD under the stress of his circumstances. Sherlock hadn't the time to ponder the signs before Moriarty was practically cackling at John's unresponsive behavior. _How dare that git be amused by John. How dare he even touch him..._ Sherlock hissed inwardly as he looked at the odd angle John's head was being held at, the way it strained his neck. It had to hurt.

"Oooh John..." Moriarty tutted in mocking disapproval. "Not even a hello for Sherlock? Now here I thought you two were so very close. _Intimate_," his voice move a taunting octave highter as he emphasized that word as, "even... You certainly protest the very thought enough for it to seem like _overcompensation_... Not to mention you're _aaaaalways_ coming _sooo close_ to getting off with your Sarah and then," he gasps here for dramatic effect, "...you just simply _don't_. You make some excuse to leave or perhaps you'll stay but just to sleep... Why? _Why_ Johnny? She's _oh so_ willing..." Moriarty's tone drops to something slow and low, a very husky timber that makes Sherlock fight not to retch in disgust. "Do you perhaps harbour a very _sexual_ desire for your _flatmate_...? Well John? Last chance to confess your deepest, darkest... _filthy little secrets... _Go ahead. Get it _aaaaaalllll_ off your chest."

John is still and utterly silent as Moriarty releases his hair and lets John straighten his neck. When a few moments have passed and John seems to have collected his wits about him he takes a deep breath. Sherlock finds himself on the edge of his seat, his bright eyes scanning every inch of John's body, the rate of his breathing, the smile lines that frame his mouth even when he's scowling, the crows feet by his eyes and the deep and intense blue of them, the coloring of John's hair-a smattering of sandy blonde, light brown, and flecks of silvering gray that one must look closely to see. Every freckle and vein visible is stored away in his mind forever as he waits intently to hear John speak.

"Kill him... Sherlock. Don't stop. Not one day of rest, not one moment of peace until you kill him," John stated firmly, his voice like that of a commanding officer. "You are my friend Sherlock. My brother in arms. And I know you. I know you will do everything you can to solve this. I know you can't quit now. But promise me..." a sort of desperation seeped into his tone that sounded so much more like the sensible doctor Sherlock knew. The Doctor Watson who had made tea and bought milk, the John that followed Sherlock about and was ever awestruck by his brilliance. The good man that Sherlock had known. The companion on whom he could thoroughly rely. The man he could trust. His blogger. "_Promise me..._ that you won't give up _no matter what_. Don't let him kill any more people. If you won't do it to save their lives... Do it... Do it to avenge mine..."

Moriarty snorted and shook his head at John, grabbing his face with one hand beneath the chin and forced him to look up. Sherlock studied the profile of John's face, the way his face is scruffy with being unshaven, the way his hair is a mess and curling over his ear a bit, and the way he stared up at Moriarty defiantly. He saved the image, the moment, forever encrypted in his hard drive.

"Johnny boy, that was _really_ pathetic. A _waste_ of a goodbye... Surely you know that? Your one and only chance to tell him something heartfelt and honest!" the criminal teased, his voice like nails on a chalkboard for the consulting detective. He wanted to hear John again, hear him speaking, hear his encouragement. And then, looking up at Moriarty with that endless defiance, John did something brilliant. Beautiful even. He grinned and gave a soft way he smiled brought Moriarty's world momentarily crashing down and it made Sherlock smile too.

"_Jimmy_ _dear_... you don't realize what _you've_ done," John seethed, his tone just as teasing. Jim frowned at him, rage lighting up his eyes as the frown twisted into an expression of venom and rancor. The incredulous scoff Moriarty gave at the very thought of not knowing exactly what he was doing only made Sherlock grin wider.

"Oh...?" Moriarty inquired, his voice cracking a bit as he strained to keep his rage in check. John nodded slowly and his face fell from his grin to a vicious glare as he stared into those dark eyes of Jim's, not even blinking once as he explained himself.

"You've let me ask a man who's lived like a sociopath for the greater part of his life to let himself _feel_ again. And not just any feeling. A powerful and unstable feeling. _Rage._ And I've asked him to use that rage for _vengeance_. You'll pay for what you've done. To me. To those people who suffered in the bombings. To Molly. To Sherlock. _Everyone._ You will be the one to burn. I may die. But when I do. Your game will be _over_. You'll have one thing left to do. No more puzzles, no more playtime. You'll have to run. And run and run and _run_. Forever. Because he won't stop until he kills you or dies trying. He _will_ destroyyou. You and your whole bloody empire..." John spoke with confidence but his voice was trembling ever so slightly. Sherlock felt his face falling as he watched John's desperation unfold.

_Brash John, so brash... You couldn't be certain I would feel, you weren't certain I'd give in to the chase just to avenge you, in fact that's quite presumptuous of you to have thought yourself so important to me... Even if you were completely correct in your deductions... Oh John... you were just clinging to the only thing you could. Hope that you would not have died for nothing... I can see your fear. It's so obvious, and he can see it too. Your desperation is irritating, but your bravery is what breaks my heart. I should have found you. I should have been there._

Sherlock's internal monologue was interrupted by the harsh laugh of Moriarty, and the resounding slap of the man's hand connecting with John's cheek, making his head jerk hard to the other side, revealing the other side of his face to the camera. It was an insulting gesture at best, and the red and angry skin of John's cheek was turning quickly away from the camera as Moriarty forced John to look at him again, hand once more on his jaw. Moriarty's seemingly unending fury was, in an instant, hidden from sight behind an impish smile.

"Why would he feel anything for you, John? You're just another lump of flesh on his long list of unfortunate acquaintances. Being closer to the top of the list doesn't make you special. It makes you _SUFFER._"

The image flickered as time jumped ahead, four days later, John looked weak, his cheeks sunken in and his skin ashen. His lips were pale and cracking as he sat, his head bobbing now and again as he moved between the waking world and sound slumber brought on by dehydration and exhaustion. The timer was on fast forward a second later, John moving from time to time, someone coming with a mask on to give him a little water now and again, taking him out of the room and then back again. The timer went on like this as days passed. Days John was kept there, just barely hanging on to life, not speaking as days turned into weeks.

Finally yesterday's date was displayed in the bottom corner on the time counter and the camera flickered a bit, returning to normal time. John was alone, his head hanging down a bit. He looked so weak it made Sherlock sick. His body was just a shell of what it had once been. He jerked up a moment later, his eyes bleary as they struggled to get into focus. He forced himself to look at the camera.

"Tur...n... i...t.. off... Sherlock... turn... it... off... d... don't... Watch th...them..." John's voice drifted in and out, broken noises that barely formed words as the click of Moriarty's expensive shoes on the floor started to echo their way into the room and then he saw Moriarty and two henchmen step into frame. One man was holding a jug of kerosene, the other was flicking a lighter open and closed with a metallic 'snick' and Sherlock felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. John coughed and cleared his throat, trying to get his message across.

"T-turn... it... off Sherlock... Don't... watch... Do not... watch them.. kill me... No point... No... new information... here... Don't watch..." John pleaded, and Sherlock watched as John's eyes welled with tears. He was not even interested in keeping a shred of dignity now at the end of his life as he came to terms with what was going to happen. They were going to burn him alive, right there on camera and John did not want Sherlock to see. He didn't want his last moments of agonizing pain to be something for anyone, especially his friend, to witness. He was scared, horrified, and not ready to die.

Though the nerve endings would die within a few minutes, John would suffer from smoke inhalation, and die watching his body burn away. John's death would be absolute torture and right up there with crucifixion. But he dared not switch it off, despite his friends pleas. Moriarty grinned, not even looking at the camera as the henchman with the kerosene set down his jug to grab John's chair and turn it toward Moriarty. _Moriarty wanted to watch John's face as he died_, Sherlock realized, his body trembling a bit. He silently wished that the criminal wasn't stealing that privilege of John's face in those last moments from him, yet at the same time he was grateful he wasn't going to see it. He'd seen many gruesome things in his time, but this was on a completely different level to anything he'd witnessed previously.

Sherlock watched as John was doused with the liquid and Sherlock could just imagine the smell and how it must have added to the fear John felt. He could hear John shakily trying not to sob as he came to the end of his rope. His mind and body were broken. He was trying to come to terms with the death that was now awaiting him. The tape shuddered in a near invisible blip as the man with the jug left the scene and the other with his lighter stepped forward, lit the lighter, and dropped it, sending John into a bath of flames, and his screams were unearthly loud.

Sherlock's blood ran cold for a moment and then he narrowed his eyes. The chair was just a fraction farther to the left than it had been a moment ago. He quickly ran the tape back a few seconds, and there again, he watched the split second shuddered blip on the tape and the chair was definitely slightly nudged over-an almost unnoticeable increment. He ran it back again, watching it over and over, his body filling with hope. This had to_ mean_ something... This had to. It was certain evidence of... _Of what?_ _Of Moriarty having poor video editing skills? _

Perhaps it was intentional, something the criminal mastermind had done purely to irk Sherlock even further. It was a new puzzle, and he had to solve it. He had to. As the tape played on the screams turned to gags and coughs and Sherlock watched John's body licked and charred by flames with an expression of pain and horror while Moriarty watched with a smug smirk, he swore under his breath that he would. And then, he noticed something else. Moriarty glanced up, his gaze lingering for a long while on the camera as he slowly pulled his face into a smug smirk and winked at the camera, just before it cut to black.


	6. The Stolen Woman

_**Wow! After a long hiatus I have returned with new chapters! I was evicted due to a shitty roommate situation and have been without internet for quite some time! Thank you all for all your wonderful reviews and patience. I'm excited to say that the next half of this story is well under way and I promise to update as often as I can. I'm really sorry this has taken so long. Please enjoy this update. The next one will be soon I promise. I'm hard at work. No joke! **_

_**I hope all of you had wonderful holidays and enjoyed the second series of Sherlock as much as I did. Please don't forget to continue to review! I thrive on your feedback! **_

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

_**The Stolen Woman  
><strong>_

The months that followed John Watson's funeral passed in what felt like rushed moments, the cool harshness of winter slowly melted away into the crisp greenness of spring. Rain poured down over London and Sherlock vacated 221B Baker Street. He left behind all his books, his experiments, his clothes. Anything that still smelled of John remained in the building. It was like a tomb of memories that the consulting detective would have liked to forget.

Mycroft paid the rent on it each month and a small extra fee to Mrs. Hudson to keep the place in the exact state it had been left. Sherlock would go there to think on occasion, but mostly, he stayed with Mycroft and the family he'd slowly come to know over time. He spent little time outside anymore. Cases disinterested him, and only his hunt for Moriarty consumed his time. The guest room had become a cavern to his theories and studies, pictures and newsprints littering the walls, connected with color coded strands of ribbon and pins. A web of lies, deceit, crimes, and capers that all smelled of Moriarty. However, the man himself had all but vanished completely.

February faded into April, and it in turn, faded into May as Sherlock kept a steady count of the days since John's disappearance and death. Obsession was not a strong enough adjective for Sherlock's behavior. Mycroft grew more and more worried as time passed. There would be week long stretches where Sherlock didn't even speak. He began to wake Sherlock every morning (if he'd slept at all) and have him come down for tea and biscuits, fearing Sherlock would die of malnutrition if something was not done.

Sherlock stared down into a cup of tea prepared by Mycroft's house keeper. He was seated in the same chair in the living room that Mycroft always sent him to. A plate of eggs and two pieces of toast with black currant jam on them was rested in his lap. Sherlock knew what was expected of him, and he hardly had it in him to fight. It was too much effort to do so when his energy was better spent on Moriarty. He simply needed to get through this one meal and then he could return to his work.

Sherlock's face was gaunt and hallow from lack of proper sleep and nutrition, and he hadn't shaved in a couple days so his cheeks and jaw were roughened with stubble, though he hardly seemed to notice. His clothes weren't fitting properly, and Mycroft knew he'd have to have them replaced or taken in at the very least fairly soon. Sherlock looked like a ghost, haunting the chair in the den. A starkly different sort of creature in comparison to his youngest nephew playing with blocks about his legs on the floor. Stephen seemed to be interested in what Sherlock was thinking, for he too began gazing intently at the cup in his uncle's grasp. His blocks were temporarily forgotten as Sherlock gave a sigh and finally drank down every drop of tea in a few quick gulps. As Sherlock picked up his plate to start on his meager breakfast, Stephen reached out, patting Sherlock's knee.

"Uncle Sherlock... You still miss that man? The one who died," he inquired with wide and curious eyes. Stephen remembered the funeral, the way Sherlock's eyes had been red rimmed, but by that point he had no tears left to shed, only a fitful black pit of anger inside. Sherlock was startled by the touch, but he didn't show it beyond the slight widening of his eyes. He turned his face down to look at the little boy and found himself softening a bit. He opened his mouth to reply but no answer came. Mycroft swept into the room from the hall and scooped up his son, drawing him away from Sherlock's knees. He gave Sherlock a slightly wary glance before looking into his son's eyes.

"Stephen, best to leave Uncle Sherlock to his breakfast. Come now, Quinton is already in the school room. It's time for your studies." Mycroft chided lightly. Sherlock watched Mycroft carry Stephen away, and once he was out of sight, Sherlock set the eggs aside and dashing up the stairs, two at a time. He looked around his room quickly, scooping up a light jacket and slipping it on over his clothes. He needed to get out, he needed to find something. _Anything. _So he decided, why not pay the homeless network a visit. He managed to sneak past Mycroft and escape the house without question or breakfast. It was out onto the streets. He walked for blocks until he met the main road where he hailed a taxi to downtown. He wandered about the usual hang outs of his network, but each place he visited he found hauntingly abandoned.

He was turning up short everywhere he went and it was growing frustrating, when finally, after hours of searching, he came across a woman who didn't look familiar, but certainly was homeless. Sherlock scanned her over, deducing just how long she must have been out on her own. Her long and unkempt hair was down to her waist, her nails were dirty, brittle and broken, definitely from building makeshift shelters and digging through garbage cans, suggesting she'd lost all pride and sense of shame at this point, things which lasted for the first few months. Her clothes were layered, pieces probably gained over time from different shelters as well as people on the streets. So many layers that her shape was lost beneath it all and one would have to strain to see she was a woman from a distance. All these things suggested she had been on the streets for approximately a year, plenty of time to have become a piece in the network. Perhaps she would have some idea of where all the others had gone to.

Sherlock approached her, waving a bit as he called out.

"Miss! Excuse me miss!"

Startled by the suddenly shout, she froze in her tracks and spun around, holding up her hands defensively. The terror in her eyes was both jarring and intriguing to Sherlock. He gave her his best smile and shook his head, motioning for her to lower her hands. He shook his head in an attempt to cajole her into a calmer state.

"I mean no harm. Please, relax. I just have some questions for you." Sherlock explained as he stepped up into her personal space to examine her further. Her skin was pale, creamy white, showing very little dirt, but it was free of all make up. _She was upper middle class once, possibly lost it all in a divorce. She still takes some pride in her appearance if she is keeping her face so clean._ Her eyes held dark circles under them, showing she got very little sleep. _Probably doesn't have any friends to help watch her back out here. She doesn't get any sleep. She's too afraid to. _The woman took a deep breath, not enjoying the scrutiny he was showing her.

"What could you possibly want from someone like me?" She inquired, her voice small, scratchy, and shy. She shrank away from Sherlock a bit, stepping back so he was no longer so close to her, folding her arms across her chest. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and gestured toward the street.

"Shall we get a cab. I'd like to treat you to lunch." Sherlock replied calmly, doing his best to appear non-threatening. She looked at him with narrowed and wary eyes, but she clearly hadn't eaten in days because she agreed almost instantly.

"Sure." she replied. Sherlock extended his arm to her and she wrapped around it cautiously, allowing him to lead the way to the streets. Sherlock hailed a cab and directed the driver to Angelo's. Upon arrival, Angelo greeted him warmly, chiding him for not being around more often. The woman shrank behind Sherlock, attempting to avoid the attention of this seemingly insane man who bragged to her about how Sherlock saved his reputation. Sherlock guided her over to a table in the corner of the restaurant, taking her coats off for her. Beneath the coats were still more figure hiding layers, but she didn't seem keen to parting with anything more, despite how warm it was inside the building. Angelo handed them each a menu and Sherlock merely pushed his aside.

"Order anything you like." Sherlock encouraged, watching her daintily pick up the menu. She ordered a heavy pasta dish and a glass of wine while Sherlock waited patiently. When Angelo left their table to go put in their order, Sherlock became all business.

"What is your name, miss?" he asked, his tone firm, but not overly commanding. The woman seemed taken aback at first and she swallowed, her brows knitting as she seemed to not know how to answer. It was as if she'd never been asked that before. Likely because it hadn't been asked in a very long time.

"Charlotte." she replied quietly, folding her fingers together on the table top. Sherlock nodded, his eyes scanning her whole form briefly before they met hers again.

"Charlotte, where have the other homeless gone?" came his next inquiry. Charlotte swallowed uneasily and looked around, then back to Sherlock, new fear in her eyes.

"You're... I'm next aren't I? I... I should have known..." she replied quietly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her as she seemed to want to get up and run. Angelo returned with her glass of wine and then with a pat to her shoulder was gone again.

"Next for what...?" Sherlock asked. Charlotte picked up the glass and downed it all as quickly as possible, looking ready to run for it. Sherlock waited a few moments longer before pressing again.

"Charlotte, next. For. What?"

Charlotte frowned at him, shaking her head.

"You... You mean you're not going to kidnap me? I... All of the others have been picked up. One by one in big black cars, taken away... I... There are only a few of us left. We're afraid to go anywhere. But when you're starving it's hard to just stay hidden. We... We live of the generosity of everyone else." She stammered. Sherlock sat back against his chair, studying her closely.

"Someone is kidnapping the homeless..." Sherlock stated, more than asked.

"Just the ones who were with your network... I... I never met you but I passed information along to those people who did deal directly with you. I just... For a moment I thought maybe... You were the one behind it... I'd have never seen it coming..." she said shakily, looking around as if waiting for someone to jump out and snatch her. Sherlock shook his head.

"Miss I have no intention of kidnapping anyone. I want to help. Tell me everything you know about the kidnappings. You said big black cars come and take them away. Do they go willingly, or are they forced into the vehicles?"

The urgency in Sherlock's voice seemed to make the woman shakier. She shook her head.

"No... No real force. Some are drugged... Syringes and stuff... But mostly they all get in willingly. I... I've seen it a few times. I've been trying to stay out of sight." she replied. When Angelo returned with her food she picked at it with her fork, taking bites now and again and pushing the pasta around the plate as they spoke.

"When did all of this start," Sherlock asked, "When did they first start disappearing?"

Charlotte shook her head, her eyes downcast as she remembered somberly when the events had all begun.

"Shortly after Christmas... One by one... Hundreds of us started dwindling to nothing." she explained, her voice low and sad. "At first we didn't really notice the numbers dwindling, but then we started seeing our friends being taken. We tried hiding, staying in groups, but they'd get us anyhow... It... It's been so terrifying. We're into summer now and... I'm one of the only one's left. My time is going to come soon I'm sure."

Sherlock nodded, watching her slowly polish off the last of her pasta. She was trembling from head to toe. Fear was not something Sherlock was very familiar with personally, but he certainly understood when other people were experiencing it.

"If they see me with you, I... Mister Holmes I'm not safe." she said softly. She got up quickly, grabbing her coats. "I shouldn't be here. I need to hide." she stammered. She was dashing out the door before Sherlock's weakened body could catch her. He chased after her, unable to catch up before he saw a sleek black car speed around the corner and screech to a halt. Charlotte let out a horrified scream as men scrambled out of the back seat and snatched her in broad daylight, right in front of Sherlock and shoved her into the vehicle. Sherlock stopped short in his tracks, watching the car drive away.

"I know this is you Moriarty... I know it is..." he whispered to himself, as if the consulting criminal could hear him. This was a blatant display of power. Moriarty was sending him a message.

_I can take everything from you Sherlock, and there is nothing you can do to stop me..._

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><p><em><strong>Don't forget to leave a review! <strong>_


	7. The Forgetting Pill

_**Hey guys! So here's the next chapter in the Persistance of Memory series. I also recently updated Misadventures of Vampire John, I am indeed continuing that series. I want to warn you now this fic is going to take a turn into potentially squicky area. Be ye warned, there are strange and dangerous things ahead. I didn't originally plan the fic to go this way, but I'm going where the muses take me. Please keep the reviews coming! I love to hear your thoughts! Also, side note: whenever I picture Sebastian Moran I honestly see Dominic West. I think he would be an amazing Moran. So that's who I have in mind when I mention him. **_

**The Persistance of Memory**

**Chapter Seven**

_**The Forgetting Pill**_

_"If they see me with you, I... Mister Holmes I'm not safe." she said softly. She got up quickly, grabbing her coats. "I shouldn't be here. I need to hide." she stammered. She was dashing out the door before Sherlock's weakened body could catch her. He chased after her, unable to catch up before he saw a sleek black car speed around the corner and screech to a halt. Charlotte let out a horrified scream as men scrambled out of the back seat and snatched her in broad daylight, right in front of Sherlock and shoved her into the vehicle._

As the black Limo pulled up along the curb and flung it's door open, Moriarty sat with an expression akin to boredom in the back seat. He huffed a little as his men jumped out and quickly restrained a flailing woman, yanked her inside, and slammed the door shut behind them. As soon as they'd pulled around the corner, Moriarty's men released the woman, who righted herself with a huff, fixing her dark hair.

"I think he bought it..." she said in a smooth and somewhat flirtatious tone as Jim set to work mixing a Dirty Martini for her. "I think this will sufficiently send him reeling into the welcoming arms of madness."

Jim poured the drink into a glass and extended it to the woman.

"Thank you Miss Adler. You never do disappoint. I hope this last minute favor hasn't made you late for your next appointment." Jim mused with a soft sort of smirk on his lips. Irene took the offered drink and sipped it.

"Mmm. You wouldn't care if I was... But thank you for pretending Jim dear." she replied with a wink. "Has anyone told you that you mix a delightful Dirty Martini?"

"This is your stop Miss Adler." Jim responded in a clipped tone, gesturing to the car door as it opened.

"Thank you Jim. Always a pleasure." she said, handing the drink off to one of the peons as she slid across Jim's lap suggestively to get out of the car.

"He'll be along any minute now, so you best hurry and get cleaned up Miss Adler." Jim called in an authoritative tone. Irene shook her head and laughed softly as she stepped onto the curb, looking up at the building. It was a tall and plain building, with a sign out front that read "Haddock Private Practice". She stepped into the building, sweeping across the threshold gracefully, greeted by her lover, Kate.

"He's just checked in Mistress." Kate whispered against her cheek as Irene passed. Irene nodded and dashed up the stairs.

"Make him some tea while he waits. Tell him I'll be just a moment, thank you Kate." Irene purred as she disappeared through her bedroom door to change as quickly as possible. She scrubbed her face clean of any traces of dirt, pulled the wig off her head and freed her long locks from the cap beneath. She shed the disguise of "Charlotte, the homeless woman" like snakeskin and slipped into a very professional business casual blouse and skirt, pinning her hair into a tight bun and slipped on a pair of catty glasses. No makeup. She needed to look simple, clean, and clinical. She smoothed down the front of her gray pencil skirt and slipped into a pair of simple black heels before she spritzed on some perfume and headed down the stairs. Kate was waiting patiently at the foot of the stair case, smiling up at her.

"You look perfect as always." she announced, taking Irene's hand as she stepped off the landing. Irene gave Kate's hand a soft squeeze and nodded.

"Thank you Kate. Send him in." Irene said, slipping down the hall and into her office. There were two chairs, several book cases full of books, a table in between the chairs. On the walls hung PHD's with the name Iris Haddock printed on them. Irene took a seat in her chair and picked up a clipboard from the table and waited patiently. Her lips quirked into a smile as Kate brought in her patient. He was a gentle looking man, sandy blond hair with a slight smattering of gray through it. He had a well trimmed full sandy beard to match. Behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses were strong and calm cobalt blue eyes.

Irene looked up with a warm smile.

"Have a seat Mr. Moriarty." she greeted quietly. The man took a seat with a weak smile and shook his head.

"Please, call me John, Miss Haddock. This isn't our first session. I'd think we could be friendlier by now..." the man asked politely as he sat down. Irene smiled a little and nodded.

"All right, John," Irene amended, "How about you tell me how you've been?"

John sighed, relaxing back into his chair and ran his fingers through his somewhat shaggy hair. He was hesitating, his throat tense as he thought about the past week since his last session.

"In your own time John. You're safe here." Irene soothed, reaching across the distance between them and patting his knee reassuringly. John looked off into the space above her head and took a deep breath.

"The dreams won't stop..." John replied calmly. "I keep having them. They're more like nightmares really... Full of murders and bombs... Madmen... It's making it harder to sleep."

Irene nodded and scrawled nonsense shorthand across her papers on her clipboard.

"You're speaking of the reoccurring dreams? The ones about the detective?" Irene asked in a calm and conversational tone. "How about you tell me about them again? Are they getting more vivid or making less sense?"

John took a deep and steadying breath, closing his eyes.

"In my dreams I'm an army doctor, invalided from Afganistan, injured. Shot in the shoulder." John pressed his palm to the wound on his shoulder. "I know I got this when mine and Jim's flat was broken into last year but... In the dream it's from a war... I dream about the war sometimes. In my dream I'm living with a mad man. A genius detective with a ridiculous name... Sherlock. And together we... We help Scotland Yard solve impossible crimes. I... I can see it all so clearly. Everything except the man's face. This Sherlock... his face is just a blur. I can't ever seem to remember it..."

Irene stiffened a little and sat up a bit straighter, tilting her head as she narrowed her eyes at John.

"Perhaps you should start writing your dreams down. It sounds like they're haunting you pretty badly. You have quite the talent for writing John. Perhaps this could be your next book. It would be good either way, to get these images out of your system somehow. I want you to try and write them down for me. Can you do that?" Irene watched John slowly relax. He nodded hesitantly at first but then he forced a small smile.

"Okay. I'll do my best." John acquiesced. Irene nodded and gave John a flawless reassuring smile.

"Good. Now, how are things at home?" she inquired, looking down at her pad as if writing something there. John smiled more genuinely and gave a soft chuckle.

"Wonderful. Jim and I are doing well. Tomorrow is our anniversary." John explained, his cheeks flushing a little as he fidgeted with his glasses. Irene had to force yet another smile on her face, acting as happy for John as she could manage.

"Congratulations. How long have you two been partners?" she asked, feigning curiosity. John rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled.

"Five years now. Five years ago tomorrow." John replied. Irene nodded.

"Tomorrow is also the anniversary of the break in, when you were shot, when your amnesia started, is it not? How are you handling that John?"

John's smile fell.

"I wish I'd forgotten the break in, and not my entire life, honestly. I'm hoping that I can get past all this. If my memories come back then they come back... But I have to stop mourning the loss of them... It's been a whole year since it happened. I remember the important things. I remember Jim..." John insisted, though he seemed far from calm as he thought back on the fuzzy few memories he had. Irene nodded.

"John, I'm going to give you a refill on your medicine, I think I'm going to up your dose however, to help you sleep better at night. All right?" Irene said, picking up a prescription pad from the table between them and scrawling on it. John nodded and rubbed the back of his neck nervously and nodded.

"All right. Thanks Miss Haddock." John replied, taking the script from her. He stood at the same time as Irene and shook her hand.

"Same time next week then?" John asked. Irene nodded.

"Yes, just make an appointment with Kate on your way out." She replied, watching John leave. Once the office door shut behind him, she slumped back down into the chair, huffing a sigh. It was only moments later that her cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked down at the screen 'Private Number' flashing menacingly at her. She answered.

"How is he?" came a calm Irish drawl. Irene swallowed hard.

"He's still dreaming of Sherlock. I upped the dose, just like you asked... He'll need another session at Baskerville soon. He needs more programming." came her terse reply. Moriarty sighed on the other end.

"How tedious. All right. I'll have Moran take him for another round before days end. Is he headed out of your office now?"

Irene closed her eyes tight.

"Yes. He should be heading for the chemist as usual. Moran can head him off there." she replied.

"Thank you Miss Adler. Your payment will be in your account by days end." Moriarty replied flatly, and then the line disconnected. Irene let out a long and low sigh, guilt tightening every muscle in her body. She wasn't sure she could continue working for Moriarty at this rate.

"John Watson... You break my heart." she whispered to herself. A soft knock signalled Kate entering the room.

"Mistress?" came her soft inquiry. Irene put on a strong mask and looked over at her lover.

"Make some lunch Kate..." she ordered softly. Kate merely nodded and obeyed, leaving Irene to sit and struggle morally in peace.

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><p>It was late evening when Sebastian made it back to Jim's flat with a very unconscious John Watson in tow. He brought him over the threshold and into the flat with relative ease, the smaller military man was heavy, but not too heavy. Jim was waiting in the parlour for his arrival.<p>

"Sebastian, I trust the programming went well." Jim greeted, walking over and gently smoothing some of John's sweat dampened hair away from his forehead, caressing his cheek somewhat affectionately.

"I believe so, Jim. The doctors at Baskerville are pushing for him to believe that Sherlock is the man who broke into the flat and shot him… It seems to be sinking in. He was certainly acting terrified. Every image of Sherlock sent him into a fit." Sebastian explained, watching as Jim gently pet John's face. John was pale, trembling from head to toe.

"Take him upstairs. He'll be waking soon. I can take it from there." He said softly, not once looking at Sebastian, his eyes focused almost affectionately on John's weary face. Sebastian nodded and carried John up to the bedroom, carefully laying him in bed. Jim made it up there a few minutes later with a mug two mugs of tea. He set them on the bedside table and looked to Sebastian with a stern sort of grimace.

"I'm not ready for _him _to find us yet, Moran. Keep your eyes on him at all times." Jim instructed.

"Sir, don't you think you're getting a little dangerously attached to Watson?" Sebastian whispered warningly. "This plan has already gone over time restraint and over budget."

Jim's face turned fierce and he backed Sebastian out of the room, shutting the door swiftly behind him with a snap.

"I am in charge here, Moran, and if I want your opinion of me I will ask for it." Jim warned, his voice hissing through clenched teeth. Sebastian folded his arms over his chest.

"I'm simply concerned sir… You're starting to grow to care for a lie. I can see it in your behavior." Moran replied firmly. "If you go under then so do I. I'm merely protecting my own interests here."

Jim reached up and smacked Sebastian, hard, leaving a stinging red print in his wake.

"I brought you back from the depths of hell in that Afgani prison camp. I can put you back with a simple command. You mind your place. Go. Watch. Sherlock." Jim ordered, his tone dangerous. Moran stood steadfast for a moment longer, meeting Moriarty's glare with one of his own. In the end, a feeble groan from within the bedroom called Moriarty away. Jim slipped back in the bedroom, a mask of worried slipping onto his features as he shut the door in Sebastian's face.

"John darling?" Jim called softly, heading over to the bedside. He sat down on the edge, smoothing a hand over John's face, his fingers sliding through the soft and scruffy beard along John's jaw. John's eyes cracked open and he gave a fitful sigh.

"Jim… dear? Is that… Thank God… I… I thought…" John sat up weakly and allowed Jim to wrap him up in a warm embrace.

"The police called me John, you must have blacked out again… They found you passed out in the tube." Jim whispered, kissing John's temple.

"I… I'm so sorry Jim." Came John's broken reply, muffled by Jim's shirt collar. Jim shook his head and tutted softly.

"It's fine… Let's just have some tea, and rest. It's all fine…" Jim reassured softly, rubbing John's back. John nodded in agreement, allowing Jim to carefully strip him out of his shoes and trousers, followed by his jumper and shirt, leaving him in his pants and undershirt. John smiled gratefully as a mug of chamomile was placed in his hands.

"How did I get so lucky…?" John inquired softly, his lips quirking into a sad smile as he watched Jim pull back the duvet to tuck him him. Jim stopped, his heart wrenching a bit as he thought of all the hell that he had put John through, in this one day alone. The past months flashed through his mind and he swallowed uneasily, putting on a sad and sweet smile. He bent over the bed and kissed John's forehead.

"It's me who's the lucky one, darling."

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><p><em><strong>Don't forget to review! <strong>_


	8. The Dangers of Emotion

_**Hey guys! Yes, a new chapter so soon! I'm updating again this week because I am going to be too busy with work for the next nine days to get any writing done, so I wanted to give you another chapter to tide you over for a while. It just came pouring out of me so quickly I saw no reason to hold back. I know that this fic is focusing on John and Jim a lot right now, soon we'll see more of Sherlock and things are going to only get stranger and crazier from here on out. I'm loving writing this fic. No joke. Please keep your reviews coming. They seriously give me the energy and courage to continue writing. Thanks to everyone who is reading it, faving it, and keeping up with it. I love ya'll! Also, in case you didn't know, this fic (past chapter five) has not been Beta'd. Sorry about any typos. They are all my fault. I try to catch them all. Ha ha ha. Enjoy!**_

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter Eight**

**The Dangers of Emotion**

Morning poured through a crack in wine coloured curtains onto a large, plush bed where Moriarty laid in a set of soft satin pajamas, his head was resting against the warmth of another's chest, minutes before they were due to rise for the day. In his ear was the steady heartbeat of his bed companion. Six months now, Jim had shared his home with another. Six months now, he had woken every morning in the warmth of another's arms. He was growing to like it all too much, so much so that Sebastian was beginning to worry. He was beginning to think Jim was growing weak. Jim never imagined in mid-November when he'd taken John Watson from poolside, that this would be the result. Even as he stood off in the distance, watching John's funeral, over seeing the burial of a decoy corpse, he didn't think that his plans of wiping John's memory clean and starting him anew would work.

The scientists at Baskerville had told him not to get his hopes up. They said that many things could go wrong. Jim was prepared for any outcome, any horrific situation, anything except this.

John was softly snoring beneath him, and a strand of light from the window fell onto his face as he shifted in his sleep, bidding him to wake just a few minutes before his alarm would go off. He yawned and stretched, looking at the blue fluorescent numbers on the face of the clock as they changed one minute at a time. He breathed slow and even, not sure if Jim was awake yet or not. Jim sense John go slightly stiff as he woke, noting the slightest changes in him easily. Six months was more than enough time for Jim to learn every bit of John's behavior. He knew it better than he knew himself most days.

7:59 AM flicked over to 8:00 AM and the bedroom was suddenly filled with the smooth sounds of contemporary Jazz. Jim slowly sat up and combed his fingers through his soft brown hair, smiling down at John, who closed his eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. With a small chuckle, Jim closed his eyes and took in the sound of the music as he readied to get out of bed. A deep groan from Johnm called Jim's attention away from the music. Jim cracked one eye open, a slight smirk on his lips.

"Yes, John?" he teased, watching John play up his tiredness just for his amusement.

"Jim dear, can't you hit the snooze... Just this once..." came a whining request, accompanied by John pulling Jim to lie back down in his arms. Jim chuckled softly and shook his head, trying to get away from the nuzzlings of John's scruffy face against his neck.

"Come now Johnny, rise and shine... You know breakfast will be ready shortly." Jim replied in a lilting tone, pulling up out of John's arms, much to John's chagrin. His bleary, blue eyes met Jim's, and through a thickly grown, sandy blond beard came a warm smile. John's eyes always twinkled with warmth and mirth. It never ceased to catch Jim off guard. Jim tilted his head as he gazed down at a face he'd grown very familiar with. At first, that face had been the hard one of a soldier. John had looked at him with hate, disgust, and contempt. Those colbolt blues had been so stern only months ago. All of that had changed now. John looked at him with such warmth, familiarity, and caring. It was overwhelming Jim to think that he'd ever gone through life without it.

Jim gave John a playful pout to which John conceded with a sigh. Jim's pout was something John could simply not contend with. He rolled his eyes ant Jim and laughed a little.

"Fine fine... I'm getting up," John grumbled, sitting up meeting Jim's lips in a quick kiss. "Hand me my glasses and my pills..."

At first, Jim could hardly move. The kisses never ceased to catch him off guard. When he recovered, Jim reached over to the bedside table and picked up John's glasses, along with a prescription pill bottle and a John's glass of water that the other man took to bed every night. John slipped on his thick rimmed, black glasses and graciously took the glass of water. Jim uncapped the pills, dumping two from the bottle which John took and swallowed down with ease. When he reached past Jim to set the water back on the table, Jim's breath caught in his throat. John's hand was on his thigh, warm, inviting, and suggestive. Jim quickly pulled back the covers and got out of bed, popping open the buttons of his satin sleep shirt as he headed to the adjoined mast bathroom.

"What's on the agenda for today?" John inquired with a yawn as he followed Jim out of the bed, watching with a somewhat amused smile as Jim stripped away the layer of satin, revealing his very lithe and fragile form. Next to John's firmer military body he looked almost fragile.

"Well I have some clients to meet with today... I'm assuming you're going to start working on your detective book? Iris called, told me to encourage you to do so..." Jim replied, picking up his toothbrush and paste at the sink, his eyes flicking to watch John enter the bathroom via his reflection in the wall length mirror. John slipped his t-shirt off over his head and tossed it into a hamper next to the bathroom door as he passed, nodding a bit.

"Yes. I think so... It may help. And hopefully some good can come of these nightmares... I may come by your office later, to make sure you aren't getting bored with your clients..." John replied with a little smile, walking up behind Jim, meeting his eyes in the mirror, winking at him. Jim gave a soft groan as John's hands slid up his back and began rubbing his shoulders.

"Of course John. I'd be delighted to have you stop in..." Jim replied, putting the brush in his mouth and beginning to scrub his perfect teeth clean. John smiled and nodded, rubbing his beard teasingly against Jim's neck, feeling Jim twitch beneath him, his knees buckling ever so slightly. His neck was always a sensitive spot.

"After you're finished we can... Go somewhere for dinner to celebrate..." John replied, sliding his hand around to Jim's front, sliding his calloused fingers over Jim's chest teasingly, before reaching out and grabbing his own tooth brush. Jim shivered and lifted up the paste for John, who took it appreciatively, a very self satisfied smirk on his lips.

"Of course... Today is our fifth anniversary..." Jim answered, as if he'd nearly forgotten, though he hadn't. He'd picked today as their anniversary after all. John chuckled quietly, his eyes soft but playful, and nodded at Jim.

"Yes. It is." he stated, almost teasingly. He set to work brushing his own teeth as Jim finished up and set to flossing. Jim watched John carefully, and stepped aside, allowing him access to the sink. It was so interesting to watch John simply brush his teeth, rinse, and floss. It was as if they'd been doing this for years. As if John was always there, in his bathroom, in his bedroom, and in his life. Jim found himself wishing it never had to end. They fell into comfortable silence as they cleaned their teeth and then headed to the shower together. Jim letting John lead the way, letting John strip him down. They took turns washing each other, from head to toe, trading sloppy kisses now and again. The domesticity alone was making Jim weak again. He wondered if this was what ordinary people felt. Probably not. Ordinary people were so foolish. They didn't understand the weight relationships held, how much of a big deal they were. Jim had never considered himself sentimental, or the type to fall in love. He'd had his fair share of experiments in his life... But nothing made him feel as validated... As good as John's presence did. And it showed. He blushed, he smiled, his cheeks ached he smiled so much. Maybe Sebastian was right.

Jim forced himself to not think of the reality of this situation right now. Not when John was so close, so warm, and so very real in front of him. Wet, naked, slicked from head to toe with soapy suds, smelling of damp skin and crisply clean shower gel. It didn't matter right now... Later. But not now.

When they finished, they both dressed, in the same sort of companionable silence. Jim in a more relaxed blazer, slacks, and dress shirt, but no tie for today. He wasn't meeting anyone too important, just a few ordinary people with extraordinary problems needing solved. John dressed in jeans, a dress shirt, and a cardigan. Jim had purchased a whole new wardrobe for John once he'd realized the programming was a success. Everything was designer, nice, well fitting, tailored to John. Somehow, he still resembled the same warm and somewhat schlumpy army doctor Jim had initially dismissed when he saw him on the CCTV footage.

When they went down stairs together, Jim's house keeper bustled about them, serving them breakfast, and bringing them in their morning papers. It was a calm and quiet way to start the day. The pair of them enjoyed some coffee, eggs, bacon, and muffins with jam. It was quite nice to share a meal. They exchanged quiet comments on different articles in their respective papers.

"These political cartoons are rubbish, yeah?" John quipped. Jim chuckled.

"Whole paper's rubbish really..." he responded with a slight smile.

As they finished up, Jim's housekeeper came back and cleared away their dishes, leaving them in peace. Jim knew that there was much to do today, he had things that needed taking care of, however as he looked across the dining room table he couldn't help but want to stay here with John all day instead. Alas, it was not to be. There were clients to meet, traps to lay, money to be made. And... Then there was Sherlock. Sherlock would surely be drawing closer soon and Jim had to be prepared. He wasn't sure he was ready to lose John just yet, and if Sherlock found him, who knew what could happen. John's mind was fragile as it was with all his programming and amnesia inducing medication. The sight of his nightmare man come to life could ruin everything. John glanced up from his paper and caught Jim gazing at him, zoned out and in his own head.

"Jim? Are you all right?" John inquired, brows knitting together with concern as he looked at his lover over the brim of his mug. Jim snapped to attention, startled out of his reverie and meeting John's concerned gaze. He plastered on a smile, though it was weak and Jim could tell that John knew.

"Fine. Just thinking about the clients." he lied calmly. John opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the house keeper bringing Jim his home phone. Jim had to exercise great self control to keep from snapping at her.

"Mister Moran is on the line for you Mister Moriarty." she announced in a soft and hushed tone. Jim nodded, taking the phone from her, and watched John chuckle and shake his head knowingly. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Thank you Hilda." he placed the phone against his ear, "Moriarty speaking."

"Sir. Sherlock is in one of your establishments. What would you have me do?" came Moran's clipped tone on the other end.

"Send in 'The Woman'." Jim responded, and without another word, he hung up, setting his phone on the table. John disregarded Jim's conversation, as he often did when he thought Jim was "talking business". He knew what Jim did, and he accepted it without complaint. He couldn't help but be attracted to the danger and the genius of it all. Part of him felt instinctual drawn to the sort of edginess it brought into their lives.

John finished up his coffee and rose from the table, walking around it to kiss Jim's cheek, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

"Have a good day sweetheart. Try not to kill any of your clients..." John said softly, smiling down at him. Jim patted the top of John's hand and nodded distractedly. Sherlock was digging again, and Jim wasn't sure he wanted it. Not now... This game was supposed to have ended ages ago, but... Jim couldn't keep himself from wanting to continue. He looked up at John and his throat tightened. He was going to put a stop to Sherlock... For just a while longer.

"You too dear... I'll see you tonight..." Jim replied, standing to cup John's face and kiss him more intimately. John moaned a little as Jim's tongue parted his lips and dove into his mouth, massaging and exploring him so overpoweringly. When Jim broke away John was breathless, and looked into Jim's eyes.

"What was that for?" John asked, though it was more of a pant than anything else. Jim smiled and rested his forehead against John's briefly, pecking his lips again.

"Happy Anniversary, John darling." he stated quietly, before he slipped away from John and headed out of the dining room and for the front door where his car would be waiting to take him to his office for the day, leaving John behind for the time being. As he slipped into the back of his limo, his phone 'pinged' and signalled that he had a text message. Jim pulled out his phone as he relaxed back against the leather interior.

_Adler is in position. -SM_

Jim sighed softly and ran a hand over his face as he tapped out a brief reply.

_Keep close watch on them. -M_

He then tapped out a new message, this one directed at Irene.

_Plan changed. Do not tell him anything. -M_

A moment later there his phone jingled twice.

_Yes sir. -SM_

_ Sure thing, sugar. xx_

Jim closed his eyes tight and soaked in the silence of the back seat, tuning out the sound of London beyond the rich interior of his Limo. He was being foolish. He knew it. The longer he waited, the worse it got. He was getting so wrapped up in his fantasy life with John he was making impulsive and stupid decisions. He was going to regret them, he could feel it right down to his bones. He would regret this. He needed it to end. Jim's thoughts were interrupted by another ping from his phone and he groaned in frustration.

"What now!" he demanded of his phone. He opened up the new message and his whole body stilled, his rage washed away, leaving him feeling fragile and exposed. He read the message over and over, only stopping once his car came to a halt and the door was opened for him.

_I love you - J_

In his gut, Jim knew that it wasn't real. It was the result of programming, the amnesia medications, the therapy sessions... all of it made John feel he was in love. It was a lie. A tragic, twisted, euphoric lie that Jim had fabricated to torment Sherlock. John wasn't did not love him. John Watson despised him. Jim needed to believe that again. However, at that moment, he didn't want to. He hit the reply button and quickly responded.

_I could never be so lucky to be loved by you. You are too good for me. -M_

Jim took a deep and shaky breath and got out of the car, pocketing his phone and heading into a large office building. He headed upstairs with one guard by his side, and entered an office on the top floor where his first client was already waiting. Jim turned his ringer on silent and it buzzed in his hand as another message came in.

_Yes. I am. But I love you just the same. I'll see you later. -J_

Jim didn't reply, he merely swallowed down his anticipation about seeing John later. The lie he was living now was so much more preferable to the truth. The thought that John Watson was his. His lover, his husband, his partner. He wished it were real, and perhaps that's what made the next few hours so difficult to get through. One client after another he simply turned away because he couldn't think about anything else. John consumed his mind. He couldn't help it. It wasn't until around four pm, when Sebastian came through the office door, that Jim's mind was able to snap into gear.

"What on earth have you been doing all day? You turned away every single client? You told Adler not give Sherlock the bait to find Watson? What on earth is wrong with you! This is our _livelihood _you are jeopardizing all for the sake of your silly fantasy!" Moran barked before Jim had the chance to react and put him in his place. Jim stood and walked around the front of his desk, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing dangerously. He turned away from Sebastian's accusing gaze in shame.

Jim flexed his fingers and felt his throat tightening, his breath coming short, quick, and shaky. He knew what he was doing was foolish. He couldn't help himself. He wanted to keep the illusion alive. Just a while longer... Sebastian closed in on him and gripped his shoulder unnecessarily tight, pulling him around so they could look each other in the eye. Jim glared up into Sebastian's hard, dark eyes and longed internally for them to be John's instead. Sebastian's brows drew together and his mouth pulled into a thin, tight line as he stared down at his boss. Sebastian was a selfish man most of the time, but in his gaze there was some true worry there. He looked at Jim and saw a strange fragility taking him over.

"You can't honestly think that anything you've had with him is real? He's been under a chemically induced amnesia. An amnesia _you _placed on him... You lied, manipulated, and acted your way into a sick man's life. Stop living in your own illusion Jim... Before you destroy yourself and everything you've worked for. Everything _we've _worked for. You have to lure Sherlock into the trap and end all this." Sebastian took a deep breath as he watched Jim's eyes lower to the floor. Jim could feel Sebastian's calculating gaze on him and he wrinkled his nose a bit, pulling out of Sebastian's grip and taking a few steps back. His eyes were drawn to the world outside, just beyond the windows. The sky was dark, dreary, and gray. That was how he felt at the moment... His world was melting away. His fantasy. His living lie. He pictured John in his head, every detail so crystal clear. Every smile line, every fleck of gray hair, the intensity of those blue eyes, and that smile... So warm and so welcoming. Jim tried to swallow but his throat felt as if it were swollen shut. This was out of control.

"It's... You are right Sebastian. It is an illusion. I should not delude myself with the notion... That John Watson could ever... love me." Jim wasn't even remotely convinced by his own words, his voice quiet, cracked, and thin with hardly held in emotion. Jim hated emotions. Dirty, disgusting, telling things that they were. They always got him hurt. Got him in trouble. Sebastian shook his head, squaring his shoulders and folding his arms across his chest. Jim blocked the other man from his mind, eyes slipping shut. The longer he pretended that this was real, the more danger he put himself in.

Jim was quickly snapped out of his thoughts by a rapping on the door. A familiar warm voice came through as the door opened slowly.

"Jim? I figured you'd be done by now, thought I'd..." John trailed off as he came through the door and saw Moran standing almost menacingly between himself and Jim. "Sorry, have I interrupted something?"

In unison Sebastian snapped "Yes." while Jim weakly gave a "No." in response to John's inquiry. Sebastian rounded on Jim, eyes wide and jaw clenched. He wasn't through speaking with his boss.

"Are we clear?" Sebastian hissed. John surprised them both by coming across the room and pushing Sebastian away.

"Oi! Remember who's in charge here, Moran. Jim signs your checks. You can't speak to him like that." John growled. Something about John's actions made something in Jim strengthen against Sebastian yet again and he turned fierce.

"John is right. You'll do well to remember your place. I've had enough trouble from you lately. Don't make me, make you disappear." Jim hissed, recieving a somewhat halfhearted snort of contempt from Sebastian.

"Fine." Sebastian's tone was clipped and irritable, but he gave no further argument, and left the pair alone. John waited for Sebastian to leave before he turned to Jim and caressed his cheek softly.

"Jim... Are you all right?" John asked softly, leaning in and kissing Jim's slightly quivering lips.

"Let's go home..." Jim whispered in response. "I want to cook for you..."

John's lips pulled into a warm smile and he nodded, wrapping an arm around Jim's shoulders and guiding him out of the room.

"I'd love that..."

Jim took a deep breath and put on a smile as he tried to internally come to terms with his reality. He couldn't give John up. He would run away with him instead...

_**Don't forget to review! **_


	9. The Unusual Ally

_**Wow! Here we are at chapter nine and I'm getting really excited! This story has been so fun to write and thanks guys for all of your support. It means a lot! I'm excited to get to the Sherlock/John reuinion that is well on it's way. I know that some of you were a little disarmed by the John/Jim things happening. I've started another fic recently called "Heartbeats" that is Jim/John focused just to keep myself from the temptation of turning this fic into that. Lol. Sorry for the brief haitus. Superbowl week was hellish at work for me! But I'm back and will be updating regularly as possible. I'm trying to alternate which story I update when. But it's all up in the air. The more reviews I get the more I wanna write! Now, enjoy! **_

**Chapter Nine**

**The Unusual Ally**

Sherlock pushed the sleek sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and adjusted the fake facial hair he carefully applied in a very defined dark goatee. His long coat he usually worse was tossed over a chair (_John's Chair..._) in his all too quiet flat. No, tonight he was wearing a cropped leather jacket, ratty jeans, and boots for his rushed disguise. He was frazzled and jittery, his whole body strained by the stress of his deep desire for revenge. The need to be able to think clearly past all his high flying emotions had urged him into old habits again and his gums were still numb from where he'd rubbed his drug of choice on them only half an hour ago. When Mycroft found that he'd been doing cocaine again, the fight would not be pretty, and no doubt, there would be talk of hospitalization and rehab again. However, Sherlock believed at this point, he had nothing to loose, and it would be worth it.

His body was humming with the charge of his high, and his mind was centered in the right place. He glanced at his phone to check the time and licked his lips nervously. He knew that Mycroft would be out looking for him by now, or at the very least his men would. He wasn't supposed to be at Baker Street, Mycroft had forbade it, for Sherlock's own safety. Sherlock would not be deterred, not now. He had a lead now, after sniffing about for months. Losing nearly every single person in his homeless network had set him back, but something had finally turned up. A tip from a lone straggler in his destroyed network... Some of Moriarty's men were meeting tonight at a little hole in the wall pub in the St. Giles area of Central London. He needed to look the part, fit in. Surely by now Moriarty would have alerted his men that Sherlock was more desperate than ever to catch him and they had to know what he looked like. Better safe than sorry.

Sherlock's fingers were trembling lightly as he stuff his phone into his jeans pocket and tumbled down the stairs, tripping over his own long limbs in an almost graceful way due to his hurry. It was dark, and the sunglasses made it difficult to see properly in the London night, a cool fog had settled over the city, not too thick, and Sherlock decided he was best off hailing a cab.

Upon his arrival at the establishment he made his way over to the bar and ordered a glass of water, sipping at it calmly as possible as he looked around. He began scanning, reading, observing every single patron of the pub. Six assassins, two petty thugs, four prostitutes, four mercenaries, ten civillians, three petty criminals, and one very well dressed woman walking through the front door. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he looked the woman over. Her face was familiar but he couldn't quite place it at first. It wasn't until the woman headed right toward him that he realized she was his "Charlotte" from the other day. Of course that had been a sham. It was so _obvious. _Why hadn't he seen it? Sherlock looked away from her, trying to keep a low profile but at this point he had figured out that she was a member of Moriarty's employ.

She took a seat next to him at the bar and ordered herself a glass of wine, then turned to Sherlock.

"Excuse me, but, have we met before?" she inquired playfully, her voice low and sultry. Sherlock glanced up.

"No. I don't believe we have." Sherlock replied calmly. "But you do so remind me of an old friend of mine."

"Oh really? What was she like?" the woman inquired. Sherlock downed the last of his water.

"She was a real slag. Had a penchant for criminal masterminds." Sherlock snipped, coolly. The woman laughed softly.

"Well, she sounds like a real charmer." the woman replied as her wine was set in front of her. She stared at Sherlock for a moment and then was distracted as her phone pinged at her from her purse. She pulled the object out.

_Plan changed. Don't tell him anything. -M_

Irene sighed softly and tapped out a reply and then put her phone away. She looked at Sherlock sadly for a moment and then leaned toward him, her lips at the shell of his ear.

"My real name is Irene... More commonly known as 'The Woman'... Look me up some time. Maybe I can help you if you help me..." she whispered, and then, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving a red imprint of lipstick on his pale cheekbone, before quickly sweeping out of the establishment. It didn't take long for Sherlock to get up and leave after that. His first stop was back at Mycroft's. straight away to his laptop to do a search on "The Woman". When her sight came up, Sherlock was slightly alarmed but, he knew now how to contact her. He sent a message to her via her site.

_St. Barts Mortuary. One hour._

_ -SH_

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, staring down at his laptop and the message he'd just sent, deep in thought. This woman was either a trap, or very serious about helping him. Moriarty wasn't a man to be taken lightly in any scenario. Either way, this was a step closer to finding Moriarty and ending this wild goose chase. For John... _For John._ His thoughts were interrupted by Mycroft barging into his room in something of a fit.

"Are you _mad!" _ Mycroft demanded of his younger brother. Sherlock looked up with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. He knew what his brother was referring to, and Sherlock inclined to say 'Yes' but he didn't have time to deal with Mycroft right then. He had a break in this case, and couldn't waste time arguing.

"I apologise but I needed to do _something _Mycroft, before I really did go mad. Now if you'll excuse me..." Sherlock got up and brushed past Mycroft, heading down the stairs, "I have an appointment."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, startling himself as much as his brother with his sudden raised voice. Sherlock stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at his brother who was stiff as a board.

"Mycroft. I will do this. I will finish it. Or die trying." Sherlock said quietly, turning to leave only to find his youngest nephew gazing up at him with wide and fearful eyes. For a brief moment Sherlock felt a pang of guilt for his recklessness, but he pushed it aside and stepped around the small child and out the door. Mycroft wasted no time after, calling his men and heading out to follow Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock had made a break, and he was concerned about his brother taking Moriarty on again on his own. This time he would be prepared.

So he followed Sherlock to Barts.

Sherlock made his way across town, and arrived with only minutes to spare. When he made his way into the Mortuary he found Irene already there waiting. He sighed and stepped into the cold room, closing the door behind him as Irene's heels clicked across the tile floor to him. He frowned deeply as he scanned her from clues as to her intentions but she was harder to read than he would have cared for. Irene sighed and shook her head.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, point blank. "Why do you want to help me?"

Irene huffed and rolled her eyes, turning away from Sherlock to laugh a little. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the door, watching her intently. She compused herself a moment later and turned back toward him.

"I'm not here to help you, though that is a side effect of what I intend. I need you to help me, and to help someone else." she explained quietly. Sherlock sneered at her a bit and shook his head.

"What makes you think I'd help you?" Sherlock inquired. "Or anyone you might know?"

Irene raised a brow and inclined her head toward him a bit.

"You're here aren't you? Now, I'm going to give you a piece of information, and in return, I want you to convince your brother to get myself and my lover out of this country, into some form of protective custody. I won't give you this information until your end of this deal is confirmed." Irene explained, her tone was firm and aloof, but Sherlock could sense her urgency and fear there. It was curious to say the least. She must have been in a great deal of trouble.

"Consider it done. What's the information?" Sherlock insisted, not bothering to worry about whether or not Mycroft would really agree. That was the least of his worries. He had to catch Moriarty, if it was the last thing he ever did. Irene shook her head and laughed incredulously.

"Oh no. Sherlock, I'm afraid a simple guarantee from you won't cut it. Mycroft Holmes needs to tell me it's done. Not you." Irene insisted. Sherlock ground out a soft sigh of frustration and pulled out his phone, texting away to his brother.

_You must come to Barts Mortuary at once. It is urgent. -SH_

Almost instantly after the text message was sent, Sherlock got a response. Though not the one he'd hoped for. The door behind Sherlock was shoved open, sending Sherlock stumbling forward and almost causing him to fall over. Mycroft and a few of his lackeys rammed their way into the room and Irene was immediately flanked by them. On Mycroft's command, her hands were cuffed behind her back and she was forced to stand still by the tight grip the men had on her.

"Mycroft! Is this all really necessary?" Sherlock griped, praying his brother was not about to botch Sherlock's only serious lead in his search for Moriarty. He couldn't risk

"Miss Adler here has been on my to-do list for some time, Sherlock. I'll be taking her into my... _Protective custody..._" Mycroft explained quietly, his eyes fierce and hard. Sherlock raised a brow and huffed at his brother and then turned to Irene with the calmest expression he could manage.

"Well you're in protective custody, now, so, if you please, this information?" Sherlock asked of her curtly. Irene glared at Mycroft's smugness for a moment and then when addressed, she turned her gaze back to Sherlock. She gave a loud sigh and jerked in the grip of her captors.

"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind, Mister Holmes." she growled, yanking at her restraints. Mycroft looked down his nose at her, his whole body a perfect picture of cool, calm control.

"Miss Adler, I'd be happy to make you more comfortable if you're willing to share your information with us. Seeing as my little brother he is so intent on extracting it from you, I see the best option for all of us here is for you to simply give it up so that... Alternate methods of extraction aren't needed." Mycroft said in a clipped but still polite tone. Irene's eyes widened as she realized that Mycroft was implying torture. The thought of being held in quite, torturous captivity was not appealing. She looked to the armed guards holding her, and then to each of the Holmes brothers and thought of poor John. John who was lost in Jim's not-reality and suffering possibly irreparable mental damage. If she didn't confess they both would suffer greatly...

"You're lucky I feel bad for him..." Irene hissed, shaking her head slowly and slumping a bit in defeat. Sherlock stepped closer, tilting his head and gazing at her intently, lifting her chin so he could look at her face.

"Feel bad for who exactly?" he asked sharply. Irene took a few deep breaths, and closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to look at those cold icy blue eyes. When she opened them she met Sherlock's intense gaze with one of her own and said four words that would likely seal her cruel fate.

"John Watson is alive."

_**Don't forget to review! **_


	10. The Reunion

_**I know I'm a bit late on this update. My dad passed away suddenly February 13**__**th**__** and I just didn't have it in me to write. His memorial was beautiful, and though I am still grieving his loss, writing is one of my very best coping skills. So I'm right back in the saddle now. This update just poured out of me! Sorry to those of you also reading "Heartbeats". I know you're waiting on an update. It's coming up next! Promise! Probably tomorrow or the next day. We're winding up for the climax here in this fic! I'm so excited for you all to read this chapter! Please continue to review and leave your support for me! I need it to fuel my fire! Enjoy this next chapter! It's been a long time coming! :)  
><strong>_

**Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter Ten**

**The Reunion **

Sherlock stared at Irene in disbelief.

"You... Are you certain?" he asked, not quite wanting to believe this news. John was alive? How could that possibly be? He'd seen the body, checked the records, the autopsy, and even watched John's death himself. It didn't seem like it could possibly be real. After a brief moment, a split second, Irene's answer was cut immediately short.

"The blip on the tape!" Sherlock exclaimed. Irene furrowed her brows and Mycroft raised one. Sherlock immediately surged forward into an explanation. "Moriarty placed it there on purpose. He turned the chair away from me and the blip was just a tiny bit of evidence he left there in hopes that I would figure it out. He switched John with a man identical to John in height, skin tone, hair color, everything. He was so meticulous he had every detail right. He burned another man alive and changed all of John's medical records. Cheated the system and has had John hostage this entire time."

Irene nodded.

"It is worse than that, Sherlock..." she cautioned quietly. Sherlock looked at her sharply and folded his arms across his chest.

"What exactly do you mean?" Sherlock inquired, leaning closer and searching her face for clues. Irene closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I believe... John has... Amnesia. He... He doesn't really quite remember you." Irene admitted her tone gravely serious. Sherlock didn't move for what seemed like ages, his whole body incredibly stiff. He straightened up and squared his shoulders.

"Where can I find him?" Sherlock's voice was slightly hoarse and incredibly low. Mycroft cleared his throat, catching the pair's attention.

"Sherlock, if the records are changed, we cannot simply stroll up to him and say 'Hello, we're here to rescue you.'. Even more so if what Miss Adler says is true. Amnesia is a delicate situation and must be handled with the utmost care." Mycroft interjected. "He will not remember you, and you will be a kidnapper." Sherlock snorted.

"I have more faith in John than that. He has those memories, deep inside him. I will simply have to bring them out to the forefront of his mind." Sherlock stated firmly. "I will approach him and remind him of my existence, gauge the situation, and act accordingly."

Mycroft shook his head.

"Sherlock, one wrong move and Moriarty may dispose of John. We have to act carefully. Passively."

"No!" Sherlock snapped. "I am not going to be passive about this! I will retrieve John! And you will stay out of my way!"

Sherlock shook his hands a little and gripped them into tight fists as he regained his composure, breathing heavy. Irene swallowed uneasily and sighed.

"I... I have an appointment with him. Tomorrow afternoon, three o'clock. I've been acting as his therapist. You could... Come to the office and act as a patient. You can see him, and if he shows any recognition toward you, then you could act more aggressively and take him by force if you must. At least then you will know if there is hope of him regaining his memory. If not... You could... Take Mycroft's approach." Her eyes moved to the elder Holmes, " Act... Passive. And wait for proper opportunity to take him when it won't be noticed." Irene's eyes were determined and her lips pulled into a tight frown. Sherlock sighed a bit and turned to face Mycroft, who seemed to be mulling it over, judging by the pensive and thoughtful look on his face.

"All right. Sherlock, we shall go with Miss Adler's plan then. However my men will be stationed all around. If something should go wrong, they will simply go in and... eliminate... Any complications." Mycroft said pointedly, nodding toward Irene who seemed to shudder a little. Sherlock nodded and with a wave of Mycroft's hand, Irene was released. She grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled his arm toward her, while pulling a pen from between her breasts. She pushed his sleeve out of the way and scrawled the address on Sherlock's forearm.

"Three o'clock. Don't be late." She said, and then, as quickly as she could manage, she fled the scene. Sherlock gazed down at the address as Mycroft's men moved past him and out of the room. The two brothers were left alone.

"Prepare yourself for the worst, Sherlock. You must be ready to deal with the possibility that John will not remember you. Not even in the slightest..." Mycroft urged. Sherlock wasn't listening.

_John is alive... _

* * *

><p>Irene was into a cab as soon as she made it outside and quickly made it home. The building was dark and ominous. She took a deep breath and made her way inside her flat, finding Sebastian Moran in her parlor, right where she'd left him. She took a deep and shaky breath, as he rose from the sofa to greet her.<p>

"Miss Adler. I trust you made the appointment?" Sebastian asked, his tone laced with threat. Irene nodded weakly, letting him pat her on the shoulder. It made her skin crawl to feel his touch in the slightest.

"Please Sebastian... Let her go." Irene pleaded under her breath. Sebastian tsked and shook his head.

"No no, Irene. I'm afraid I can't do that until the job is done." Sebastian explained. Irene looked at her feet, and then met Sebastian's cold gaze.

"When Jim finds out you double crossed him, you'll be dead within a week." she said in a hushed tone. "I should go to him right now."

Sebastian shook his head and lit a cigarette while Irene wrinkled her nose disapprovingly of him smoking in her home.

"But you won't... Because you've got too much heart. You want John away from Jim just as badly as I do..." Sebastian said in a somewhat husky tone, flicking his ash on her carpet and smearing it in with the toe of his designer boot.

"If you knew that then why did you take Kate!" Irene snapped, feeling her blood run cold when Sebastian's lips turned up into a smirk.

"Call it... insurance." Sebastian said, chuckling darkly, before brushing past her. "I'll be seeing you."

Irene glared at Sebastian's retreating back until it disappeared through the front door. Once she was alone her knees buckled and she fought against sobs that were pushing their way up her throat and tears that were welling in her eyes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes moved over the sign in front of the building before he looked up at the tall structure, mapping any escape routes he might need to use before heading up the steps and into the building. It was five minutes to three and he was feeling a nervousness he'd never experienced before. It was nearly overwhelming and he had to fight with himself to keep his breathing steady. As he entered the building, Irene was waiting to greet him. She looked composed and plain in comparison to the previous encounters he'd had with her and he wasn't sure whether it was refreshing or disappointing. She smiled weakly.<p>

"He should be here any moment." Irene said without formal greeting. Sherlock was unaware of why his cheeks were burning and Irene smiled a little at the redness rising there. "You really missed him didn't you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, merely shrugging off the inquiry, knowing it was rhetorical anyway. Irene looked at him a bit longer, before he gaze was drawn away. The front door was opening yet again. Irene gave a more professional smile, and Sherlock stood rigid, keeping his back to the door.

"Mister Moriarty, glad you could make it." Irene greeted. Sherlock's eyes widened and immediately assumed foul play. He whipped around, expecting to see Jim standing there in a pressed suit with a smug smirk, but instead he was met with a sight that took the air right out of his lungs. There before him in a comfortably worn jumper, was John. Yes he'd changed. He had a beard, but it suited him. And the glasses he wore were so endearing.

John looked at him quizzically and Sherlock stared back. Sherlock couldn't help but exhale John's name ever so softly at the sight of him. So long he'd thought him dead, and relief and warmth swam through every inch of him. Sherlock felt incredibly vulnerable and human. However, his elation was dashed almost immediately.

"You!" John exclaimed, eyes widening. "Irene this! This is the man! The one..."

Sherlock was caught off guard as John swung madly at him and caught him with a strong and skilled blow to the jaw, knocking him unconscious. The last thing Sherlock heard before he lost consciousness was a sickening accusation.

"He's the one who hurt us... Jim and I! Call the police! Call them..."

And then blackness. Hope dashed in an instant.

John felt as if he'd seen his nightmares walking the earth when he looked at Sherlock. He was still shaking when the police and ambulance arrived. Irene had tried to comfort him but he pushed her away. He wanted Jim here. He pulled out his phone after giving his statement to the police and called Jim. Jim picked up on the third ring.

"John darling? You almost never call. What's the matter?" Jim asked, his tone showing his surprise. John let out a shuddering breath.

"Jim... I saw him. I... I punched him!" John stammered. "The man... The man who broke in... He was in my... when I arrived for my appointment. He was _here!_"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line and John began to worry about his lover, who finally responded, his voice strained.

"Stay there. I'm coming to you. Do not move." Jim instructed firmly, and then the line disconnected. John collapsed into the nearest chair, still in shock. He took in the whole moment bit by bit. The look on that... man's face. The way he'd said his name as if they were old friends. _That man was ill... Incredibly ill. _John thought to himself as he rubbed his hands together nervously.

It took Jim fifteen minutes to arrive, and as he did, the police were finally leaving. John was meant to go down to the station to finish filing charges, but he didn't want to move. Not when Jim had instructed him so firmly to stay put. When his eyes fell on Jim walking toward him he was up in a flash and into his lover's arms. Jim embraced him tightly.

"Oh John... I'm so sorry..." Jim soothed softly, rubbing his back. John sighed and took in the smell of Jim, so familiar and comforting.

"I'm fine... I just... I'm sorry for dragging you away." John replied softly, pulling back from the embrace to look Jim in the eyes. Jim shook his head and reached up, petting John's hair, cheeks, and shoulder. John opened his mouth to say more, but Jim shushed him, then kissed him.

Jim's fingers were so desperate as he clung to John's shoulders, and then stroked them against his face again. He kissed him again and again, panic causing his heart to race. Sherlock had found John. He'd been double crossed. Irene and likely Sebastian. They were trying to bring his world down around him. A raging fire began to burn in his gut. He would not let them win so easily...

"Quickly John. We have to get home... pack our things... We have to go. We have to go _now..._"

* * *

><p>When Sherlock came to he was in Mycroft's office, laid out across the sofa with an ice pack wedge against his swollen jaw. Mycroft was standing over him with a nurse at his side, a look of sincere worry on his face. Sherlock grunted a little as he sat up, and Mycroft and the nurse backed up. The ice pack clattered to the floor as he leaned forward.<p>

"John... Where... Where's John?" Sherlock wheezed. "How long have I been unconscious...?"

Mycroft sighed in a way that Sherlock had only heard twice before in his life and Sherlock was on his feet in an instant.

"WHERE IS HE!" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft held up a hand and urged Sherlock to sit back down.

"You've been out for four hours... We apprehended John and Moriarty as they tried to flee the country... John is being detained. It appears he has been sufficiently brain washed... for lack of a better term." Mycroft explained. "I do not think it wise for you to see him..."

Sherlock growled lowly and grabbed his brother by the lapels of his suit jacket.

"Take. Me. To. John."

Mycroft didn't seem phased in the least and pried his brothers hands off his suit with ease.

"Fine." came a clipped reply. "Follow me."

Sherlock followed Mycroft out of his office and outside where one of Mycroft's government vehicles was waiting. The ride was long, and painfully quiet. They arrived at a secured sanitarium just outside of the city limits. It was tucked away from the world and heavily guarded. Whether to keep people in or out, Sherlock could only wonder. Large wrought iron gates opened up before them and they made their way in. The building looked like a prison from the outside and inside it looked like a hospital. It was eerily quiet as they entered. Mycroft swiped his government ID on a keypad as they walked through every door, the halls twisting and turning. Sherlock committed them to memory. Mycroft stopped in front of a secured door with a small panel of glass in it. Sherlock gazed through and saw John inside, wearing scrubs and pacing back and forth.

"I wouldn't recommend going in there. He is quiet... unhinged. All of the blood work done on Doctor Watson has showed he has an experimental drug that Baskerville was perfecting. It's a drug that weakens the mind, induces an amnesia-like state, and makes the mind very easy to mold through stimuli. Essentially, it's meant for brainwashing..." Mycroft advised, already preparing to open the door with his ID, knowing he was being ignored. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. The thought of John being poisoned and changed by Moriarty brought a new wave of rage that threatened to make Sherlock collapse. The door lock clicked out of place and Sherlock went immediately in, Mycroft following right behind him.

As they entered, John flexed his fingers and looked up at Sherlock with cold and unforgiving eyes. The familiar warmth of the doctor had been tucked away to another part of John's mind and all that was left was an angry, wounded animal.

"John..." Sherlock greeted. "Do you remember me? I'm your friend... Sherlock Holmes..."

John snorted.

"You are no friend of mine... Where is Jim? What have you lot done with my husband?" John snarled, lunging at Sherlock. Sherlock stepped aside.

"Jim is where he needs to be. In jail. You are not well John. You're suffering from a drug induced amnesia. Whatever lies Jim has told you, however real they may feel, they are not." Sherlock insisted, his tone cold and controlled. John gritted his teeth and glared at the other man. "It wasn't real John. It's a lie. You need to believe me. He wasn't your husband. You're a doctor. Doctor John Watson. You are my friend, my partner. We solve crimes together... Jim is our enemy."

"You can't tell me... You can't... You just can't expect me to not... Not love him. You just come barging into my life, kidnap me... Detain me against my will... And now... You're expecting me to accept that it wasn't real? Well... Let me clue you in on something Mister Holmes..." John's terse tone and the neglect to using Sherlock's first name forced the dark haired man to take a step back both out of hurt and apprehension.

"I can't just turn what I feel off. Maybe you don't understand that because you don't have a single bone in your body that feels. But I love Jim. I love him with all my heart. My feelings aren't going to just go away because you say they're a lie. People... Real people... Don't work like that."

Sherlock could feel his throat constricting with a certain sense of heartbreak. His hopes of getting John back so easily were dashed, like brittle clay pots along jagged rocks. He felt like crumbling. John's eyes remained hard, even as he saw how incredibly harmed Sherlock was by his words. The man deserved it, in John's opinion. He'd kidnapped him, dragged him away from the only person on this earth he knew he loved, and expected him to just believe all this? John sat down on the bed heavily. The audacity this man had, to slander his lover, his husband, claim him to be a lie. Proof or no proof, John was furious, and hurt as well. Sherlock looked to the security camera up in the corner of the room, nodding to Mycroft's people that he was ready to leave the room, and the door buzzed open.

"You can't keep me here forever Holmes! This is illegal!" John reminded loudly as Sherlock left the room. Sherlock paused in the doorway briefly, wanting to turn around and shake some sense into his doctor, but he refrained, and took another few steps, letting the door slam shut and lock itself again behind him. Sherlock couldn't bear to stay there. He needed to get out and go to his familiar warm flat for a while. Though it was much emptier without John in it, he would rather be alone than face John in the shape the doctor was in. Mycroft made no attempt to stop Sherlock and simply stood by as his brother left.

He could feel it in his bones. He needed to intervene in this before it was too late. Sherlock was going to drive John to anger, or worse, madness. He quietly made his way across the room, planning out how he would handle John. John was delicate right now, trapped, panicking, probably feeling that PTSD despite Moriarty's brainwashing and drug treatments. The soldier in him had pushed its way through the haze without John's consent. This was a good sign. The real John, all those memories, they were still in there and John was close enough to them that he had a chance of remembering. It would just take time.

Time that Sherlock didn't want to waste. He wanted John well, and Mycroft could tell that it would be a while before John would be right as rain.

Mycroft's shoes clicked lightly against the plain, linoleum floor as he approached, stopping at the end of the bed. Instead of looking at Mycroft, John went about gazing at the window, and the sky outside.

"John... I do apologize for my brother's insensitivity. He just happens to be very... emotionally involved in your situation, and is hurting. Though he won't admit to that. I assure you, everything he is doing is because he cares." Mycroft states calmly, watching John's lips twitch into a tight frown.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" John spat, drawing an unimpressed sigh from Mycroft. John turned his head toward the elder Holmes and met his gaze, seeing certain solemnness in his eyes. Mycroft took a moment to clear his throat and contemplate what to say next, stepping over to sit on the edge of the bed beside John. He folded his arms across his chest and gazed out the window also.

"Sherlock loves you." Mycroft stated, his tone flat and somewhat bored. "Perhaps in a way that he is not yet prepared to deal with. Though he will always be married to his work, he has become devoted... to you, John Watson. Whether you can say the same for Moriarty or not, I do not know. The man you love poisoned you for a very long time, caused you to suffer from a peculiar case of Stockholm syndrome and chemically induced amnesia, however feelings are feelings. I will not say that what you feel isn't real. I will say, it is a lie. You are... Ill. Until the chemical is out of your system, you will remain here. However, if at the end of your treatment and detox you wish to go to him... I will see to it that you are not stopped."

John relaxed a bit, but not completely, his eyes flicking over to gaze at Mycroft. Mycroft felt John's eyes on him and turned his head to face the man's gaze.

"Why are you doing this...?" John asked quietly, his fingers twitching a bit before curling up into fists reflexively. Mycroft smiled softly, a light chuckle leaving him as he nodded and looked away.

"Believe it or not John, Sherlock is not the only one who cares a great deal for you." Mycroft whispered, his voice taking on a very sad and serious tone. "There are many others who would be devastated to lose you a second time."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Don't forget to review! :) <strong>_


	11. The Confession

_**Hey guys! Wow, it's been a crazy ride with this story so far. I'm excited to be winding things down now. There's only two, maybe three chapters left after this one. I'd like to thank you all for your unending support thus-far and I'm really grateful! Please continue to review and let me know what you think! I love hearing your thoughts! Also, I'm going to be updating "Heartbeats" again really soon. Promise! Anyway, enjoy! **_

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter 11**

**The Confession**

_Jim took John by the hand and pulled him out of the building and away from the world. Together they slipped into the black car at the curb waiting for them. Jim knew now that if he wanted to keep John he had to leave. Betrayal stung, but the feeling was lost in his panicked state. Sherlock knew John was alive now, which meant that Big Brother wasn't far behind on that fact. Jim had gone to great lengths to keep this secret. Tampering with CCTV footage, changing medical records, fabricating certificates. Even bank accounts were made for this fake incarnation of John. And now it was all on the verge of destruction. _

_ John's fingers were tightly entwined with his own, clearly not wanting to let go. Jim looked over at John's face and sighed. John looked pale, like he'd seen a ghost, his brow creased in worry. It wasn't far from the truth. Jim let out a heavy sigh and lifted John's hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of it. _

_ "We're going to get away from all this, John. We'll never have to return here. We can go into seclusion, a safe place, away from the city, prying eyes, police, burglars, stalkers... Whatever the danger, I promise I will keep us from it. From here onward." Jim's voice was quiet but sincere and strong. John's shoulders slumped and relaxed noticeably. _

_ "Jim... You should have seen the way he looked at me... Heard the way he said my name... As if we were... As if we were old friends." John said weakly. Jim turned his body toward John and reached up. He took John's chin in hand and turned him so they could look one another in the eyes. _

_ "He was sick, John... And I'm going to protect you from him. With every bit of power I have, I will protect you from him." he said softly. John nodded and took Jim's hand away from his face, in one smooth motion he moved forward and kissed him. Jim made a soft and needy noise in the back of his throat as he kissed back like it was the last chance he'd ever have at doing so. _

_ Their tender moment was cut short as the vehicle came to a halt. The door opened and John saw that they'd made it to the airport. Jim wasn't exaggerating. He was going to get John away and safe from Sherlock's clutches. However, as soon as they stepped out of the vehicle, they were swarmed by government officials. Jim was ripped away from John, and while John shouted and screamed in protest, Jim felt defeat hit him like a tranquilizer. His body felt like lead and he couldn't walk. It was over? Just like that...? _

_ "JIM! JIM PLEASE!"_

_ John's cries tore into Jim's heart, but he became utterly stoic on the outside. He let himself be dragged away. He watched John get shoved into one car just as he was tossed into one himself. When he glanced out the back window, he caught sight of Mycroft Holmes standing in the crowd, watching Jim be driven away. It was over now._

_ Jim had lost._

* * *

><p>Three months passed before John regained his memories. When he finally did, he was released from his inpatient care and into the waiting custody of Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. Another month of uncomfortable cohabitation followed. Being back in 221B Baker Street made him feel even less at ease. He felt like a ghost haunting his old home. Memories of Jim were still incredibly vivid in his mind. Much as he would have liked to erase everything inside his mind so he could simple return to how things had been, it was not to be. In his head, he knew what he'd felt for Moriarty hadn't been real. Yet in his heart it felt more real than anything he'd ever felt.<p>

Sherlock had been much kinder and gentler with John since John's return. Today was no exception to that. Sherlock had made breakfast (which had been surprisingly better than John had expected) and now was making tea. The smell of steeping herbs filled 221B, and John tried his best to let that make him feel at home. He couldn't shake the sensation of being a stranger to himself and to his life he'd lead before Moriarty had taken him. Sherlock watched John sit down at the desk and open his laptop. He'd done so many times in the past month since he'd returned to Baker street. He'd yet to actually write anything. What went on in John's mind was only somewhat a mystery to Sherlock. He could see certain thoughts when they passed over John's face. Even the briefest change in expression or the softest sigh was like a billboard for Sherlock.

John grew quickly distracted, and in favor of writing anything he began staring out the window of 221B and out onto the street. Once again his blog lay open on his laptop, glaring blankly at him, almost mocking him for his lack of ability to return to normalcy. Sherlock approached him cautiously with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of Cadbury Chocolate Digestives. Since John's return he'd been walking on eggshells around the ex-army doctor. His worry was often hidden behind a mask of sociopathic indifference. He wanted to show John affection like never before. Loosing John brought forth strange realizations in Sherlock, and now that John was back, what he felt was smacking him right in the face.

"John... I've made tea." Sherlock stated calmly, setting the mug and the plate beside John's laptop. John jerk a bit, looking to Sherlock quickly as if he'd been ripped from a dream. John gave Sherlock a warm and appreciative smile. Sherlock's chest grew tight as John smiled at him. It was something he wasn't comfortable with and he fought not to make a face of discomfort. Endearment was an odd sensation. Sherlock wasn't used to feeling like this.

"Thanks..." John said, picking up the mug of tea and giving it a sip. John hummed softly, showing his approval for Sherlock's tea-making skills, which had improved exponentially since John had returned to 221B. Sherlock watched John sip his tea and gaze out the window for a few minutes, working up the nerve to break the silence.

"John I need to ask you something..." Sherlock's tone was on the tentative side and that was enough to catch John's attention whole heartedly. He met Sherlock's cool eyes and raised a brow.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a seat across the desk from John and pushed John's laptop closed, then folded his hands on the wooden surface. John watched Sherlock search for words in his database to form the inquiry properly and in the most "John-Friendly" manner possible. It was something John had seen him do before. It was both belittling and amusing.

"John, do you still feel things... For Moriarty?" Sherlock asked finally, his eyes boring into John as if expecting the man to lie. John took a deep breath and then let it out slowly as he thought carefully about his answer.

"It's... Complicated Sherlock. I... I suppose... Well yes." John nodded and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I feel something for him. But I know that feeling is a lie. So... I'm doing my best to dismiss it."

Sherlock reached across the distance between them and rested his hand over one of John's. The movement was hastily made, sudden, and caught John off guard. John looked down at his hand and then up at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock's cheeks were tinged a flattering shade of pink and his eyes were down cast. It was slowly dawning on John exactly where this was going. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or petrified at the thought of what might come next.

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock swallowed uneasily and looked up at John. Their eyes met and Sherlock saw such unending dedication and understanding in John's eyes that he wanted to crumble under the weight of what it made him feel. John was good at that. He was wonderful really. He made Sherlock feel in ways Sherlock had not known until they'd met. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

"Did you... Ever feel anything for me like that, John? While you were gone, I found myself experiencing something I believe to be heart break." Sherlock's voice was soft, barely above a sighed quietly, a small, sad smile came to his lips as he watched Sherlock unfold with honesty and vulnerability. John looked down at Sherlock's hand and turned his own over, taking Sherlock's wrist into his gentle grip. He gave Sherlock a reassuring squeeze.

"Sherlock, from the moment I met you, I never really knew how to feel about you. But I care a great deal for you. And I believe... You and I..." John licked his lips nervously, looking up at the sky through the window as he searched for the right words to say. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was at all familiar with the sort of situation they were now finding themselves in. It was certainly a delicate one. John didn't want to hurt Sherlock, but he could not lie to him either. He had felt something for Sherlock but forced himself, for propriety's sake, to squash it up inside himself. It was weird trying to reclaim what he'd been feeling before, now, and to try and put it into words.

"John, I'm in love with you." Sherlock blurted suddenly, causing John to jerk his head back to look at him. His own thoughts were pulled to a grinding halt as what Sherlock said sank in. John's eyes were wide with surprise and lips drawn into a tight line. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. He couldn't honestly say the same, but he wouldn't rule out the possibility that love could come later.

"Sherlock... I... I don't know what to say..." John said softly. Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled his hand away, getting up from his seat across from John. John almost started to panic, afraid that Sherlock had taken what he said as rejection.

"I don't expect you to say anything, John. I... I want you to figure out how you feel." Sherlock replied, digging into his pocket and pulling out a slip of paper. He extended it to John and looked away, his cheeks still that becoming shade of pink.

"Call this number when you're ready to go to him..." Sherlock said. John reached out and took the slip of paper and stared at it. It was just a phone number. He assumed it was one of Mycroft's numbers.

"Him...? As in... As in Jim?" John inquired, baffled by this offer. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. Mycroft has him in a maximum security program. He's to be held without trial. No one is to know he is there, you understand. Mycroft is slowly wiping all evidence of Jim Moriarty from the face of the earth so he can be... Made to disappear properly." Sherlock explained, turning away from John completely. In his own way, Sherlock was a bit disappointed at the anti-climatic ending to his rivalry with Jim, but more than anything, he was grateful to have John back.

John stood and crossed the distance between himself and Sherlock, taking Sherlock's upper arm in his hand and turning him around so he could look him in the eye once more. Sherlock seemed a bit startled by the act, but recovered easily and gave John a very somber look. John sighed and slid his hand up Sherlock's arm to squeeze his shoulder.

"Thank you Sherlock..." he said softly, leaning up and pecking Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock pulled away from John a bit awkwardly.

"You're... welcome." Sherlock replied softly, watching John reach into his pocket for his phone out of the corner of his eye. John slowly made his way out of the living room and up to his own bedroom as he punched in the numbers. When he hit send, it rang once, and then he heard simple instructions.

"Be ready for the car in five minutes." came a clipped female tone, and then the call was disconnected. John took a deep breath and put on his shoes and pulled on his jacket before heading out to the curb without even saying good bye to Sherlock. He was ready to end this confusion. He had a real chance at happiness and only one thing still stood in his way.

Jim Moriarty.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Don't forget to review!<strong>_


	12. The Man Sung to Sleep

_**Hey guys! So this is it! This is the end of Persistence of Memory! I may do a sequel. There are a lot of loose ends that deserve to be fleshed out. I just think this is a good place to end this part of the story. I feel as though I should move this story to the John/Jim section because that turned out to be the focus here. I will update "Heartbeats" next. And sorry about my neglect of "The Misadventures of Vampire John" lately. I've just not had any inspiration for it. Anyway, please enjoy the concluding chapter. **_

**Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter Twelve**

**The Man Sung To Sleep**

John was lead through a secure electric prison-like fence to a small gray building. It may have been a house once, but now it looked like a cell. There were guards posted all around. When John made his way up to the entrance, Mycroft was waiting. They gave each other knowing glances but nothing was said. Mycroft swiped a key card on a pad and the sound of a lock clicking open on the metal door in front of him, met John's ears. The door swung open with ease and John stepped through to find a bed, a table and chairs, a bath and toilet, but no windows. There, sprawled across the bed, was Jim Moriarty. He was wearing very plain white prison garments and looked to be mostly asleep. John walked cautiously closer and he noted a brace around Jim's ankle that reminded him of a house-arrest ankle bracelet.

Jim slowly sat up and stretched languidly. He seemed a little taken aback when he laid eyes on John. He frowned and made no move to get up.

"John? What on earth are you doing here?" he asked, placing a sort of lilting tease in his tone, but John wasn't exactly fooled.

"I came for some... Answers." John replied, taking a seat at the table. Jim chuckled darkly and shook his head, looking away from John.

"Answers, eh? What kind of answers are you hoping for? And what makes you think I'd give them?" he responded.

John watched Jim turn completely away. Jim scooted close to the wall and scratched idly at the peeling paint with his fingernail, his legs crossed comfortably. John sighed as he examined Jim's hunched form. The army doctor felt something weird welling up inside him and he slipped off his shoes, climbing onto the bed beside Jim, sitting cross-legged as well. Jim didn't look over, merely stared at the wall more intently.

John took a deep breath and twiddled his thumbs in his lap idly.

"I... remember everything..." John stated on his exhaling breath. Jim stiffened ever so briefly, but made no indication that he was going to acknowledge the confession. John looked at Jim and felt that weird sensation in his gut again. He reached over and touched Jim's shoulder, only to have Jim wrench away.

"Why did you come here...?" Jim growled lowly. "Haven't you got what you wanted yet? I'm locked up. I'm to be tortured for information _again._ By Mycroft and his goons... And when they've exhausted every form of torture and extraction they have at their disposal, they'll dispose of me. No more Moriarty. Poof. I'll be erased. Gone forever. That is the goal, is it not?"

John felt unusually cold and felt the sting of Jim's words. He knew he should feel no pity for this man who kidnapped him, drugged him, and brain washed him. However, he simply couldn't help it. John reached out again, his fingers gripping Jim's shoulder tightly.

"Jim..." he started, but he found no more words were coming. He sighed and let his hand slowly slip away. Jim just stared straight ahead at the wall.

"Tell me it was all a lie. Tell me..." John's voice cracked uncomfortably as he looked at Jim with darkening eyes, Jim seemed to curl in on himself briefly, before he jumped to his feet and off the bed, crossing the room to get away from John. John cautiously got up as well, and stepped closer, his heart hammering in his chest so loudly he was sure Jim also heard it. Jim turned his body toward John, his head hanging, eyes downcast in shame. If he told John the truth now, John would be left feeling conflicted. He wouldn't be able to let Jim go properly and would feel sickened and guilty knowing what Mycroft and his men were doing. Much as he wanted John to grieve for him... it was selfish and fruitless. He'd only be hurting John, and at this point, that was the last thing he wanted to do. He knew deep down, John needed it to be a lie so he could be free.

"Oh... Johnny darling..." Jim's voice was strained as he forced himself to speak in the familiar taunting tone. "Did you honestly think that I could be capable of _caring _about you? _Capable of loving you?" _Jim's eyes were red rimmed, misty as he kept any tears that felt like falling at bay. Not since he was a child had his heart ached this much. Not since Carl Powers had called him a freak, not since those children had laughed at him for how different he was, had he wanted so badly to hurt someone else to make his own pain lessen. John's jaw was tight, rigid, and his back straight, shoulders tense. Jim could see how John could hardly stand to look at him as he put on his best sham grin and ran a hand back through his hair.

"I... Never really loved you.. John. So you best run along now. Go to your good friend Sherlock..." Jim's voice lost it's taunting edge, his lips twitching downward as he tried so hard to keep himself together. John crossed the room and grabbed Jim tightly by the throat, squeezing hard. Jim's barely veiled emotions told John everything he wanted to know. He'd be a fool to believe it, but he was no less a fool for pressing for the truth. He had his out. He could walk away... But he wouldn't.

"I don't believe you." came John's hoarse reply, his body going still and utterly steady. "I don't believe you..."

There was something somber in John's eyes as he held Jim. Jim didn't move, didn't flinch as John's fingers cut off some of his air supplu. John's grip was tight and his blue eyes were blazing with such intensity that Jim felt his knees going weak at the sight. Jim's lips twitched again, his face softening as he gave a real, true, and sad smile to John. John's breath caught in his throat as he felt Jim's unreasonably cold fingers coming up to rest against his hand, his thumb gently caressing the back of it.

"Tell the truth..." John whispered softly, his free hand slid up against Jim's cheeks, fingers carefully caressing him. "Tell me the truth..."

Jim's body shuddered as a bitter laugh ripped from his throat, quiet, desperate, ending in a soft whimper as he choked on it. Those tears could be held back no longer.

"The truth is John... I can never have you, you were not mine to begin with... You were the best puzzle, the most brilliant conquest of my entire life... I stole you... I kept you... I loved you... I never wanted to let you go. What you felt was something I fabricated... Something I fabricated so well that I began to believe it, I began to buy into my own lies. I was... defeated by my own cleverness and your wonderful warmth... What I felt for you is as real as the walls you see around us..."

John gritted his teeth and t grabbed Jim by his shoulders and shook him hard, rattling the consulting criminal out of his theatrics long enough for him to see the desperation in John's eyes. Jim's lips quivered as he felt John's hot breath puffing shakily across his face, and he went a little weak in the knees.

"Mycroft and his men... _Are _going to torture and kill me." Moriarty whispered. "But I'd rather it was you John..."

John shook his head.

"No." he replied softly. He shoved Jim away from him and found Jim coming right back at him, throwing his arms around John tightly. John was a bit caught off guard, but slowly wrapped his arms around Jim in return, rubbing his back gently. He knew what he felt wasn't really real, but it still felt like it was. He thought of all the kind, tender, loving behavior Jim had shown him while they were together and his heart softened toward the consulting criminal.

"If you won't put me out of my misery, give me something to think of while I rot." Jim teased, laughing bitterly. John sighed and pulled away enough to kiss Jim firmly on the lips. The kiss sent warmth spreading through them both. When John pulled away he opened his mouth to say something more, but Jim shushed him and gestured to the door.

"I want this to be the last thing in my memories of you... Don't ruin it with something boring and sad." Jim said. John felt a small smile quirking up at his lips against his will. He then exited the little building and passed Mycroft without even a parting glance and got back into the car.

When he returned to the flat, Sherlock was waiting for him. And waiting for his feelings. John came up the stairs and saw Sherlock curled up in his chair watching the news, though his gaze appeared to be looking off somewhere incredibly far away. Sherlock looked up at John as soon as he came into the room. He seemed afraid to speak or move. John gave him a warm and reassuring smile.

"Sherlock... I think... Maybe we can give this... Whatever this is..." he gestured between the two of them. "A real go... I-If... If you're really interested in that."

Sherlock didn't smile, but his eyes lit up in the most peculiar way. Sherlock was up from the chair and across the room in a flash and John found himself caught up in another surprising embrace. Sherlock's lips were on his own and John was stiff at first, but with a soft chuckle of amusement at Sherlock's overzealous behavior, he softened into the kiss.

When Sherlock pulled away his cheeks were dusted pink and he kept his gaze averted from John. John smiled at his friend and flatmate, patting his chest gently.

"Easy tiger. Let's not rush into things. I just got out of a _really bad_ relationship with an evil genius." John joked, and Sherlock laughed warmly with him in response.

When John went to bed that night, he was barely asleep for two hours before Sherlock was banging on his door and shouting at him. _It's good to be home... _John thought sarcastically. John scrambled out of bed and to the door. He opened it with a sour expression on his face.

"What are you on about now, Sherlock?" John grouched.

"Moriarty has escaped John!" Sherlock announced, shaking John by the shoulders. It was then that John realized he didn't have his mobile phone anymore... And he hadn't had it since he left Moriarty's cell. John thought back to the sudden embrace and the kiss they'd shared and laughed in amazement.

"That wanker!" John exclaimed, more to himself than Sherlock. Sherlock was not amused and spent the rest of the evening lecturing John about being careless. John was finally able to shut him up with a few kisses and an invite to sleep in the same bed. Sherlock reluctantly accepted. By 6 am the next morning, Sherlock was on the hunt for Moriarty again.

Two days later an unmarked parcel arrived for John.

Inside was his mobile. The background was changed to a picture of Jim making a kissy-face and a note was taped to the back. John plucked the note from the mobile and opened it. He couldn't help the strange sense of excitement he felt when he read it.

_See you around..._

_xo _

**The End**


	13. Author's Notes

The sequel is now available and well underway, see my works and look for it!

_**The Visage of War**_

Thanks for reading!


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